


You Can't Always Get What You Want

by tyrsibs (twiceshy)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Episode coda to s10e3 Soul Survivor, Gen, Mark of Cain, caution: amulet fic, wishful thinking on my part
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2018-02-24 00:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 27,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2560763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twiceshy/pseuds/tyrsibs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Dean's demon cure, is there anything that can help him regain his sense of place in the world?  A small gift might hold big secrets OR When the Mark met the Amulet OR Dean and Sammy's post-demon cure road trip, through the Great Plains to a legendary landmark, and then into a place "behind the curtain".  Set in season 10, between Soul Survivor and Paper Moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When the knock sounded on his door, Dean bolted upright a little too fast, pulling away from the headboard and swinging his legs to the floor. “Yeah-,” he said. 

He counted a beat, two beats, before Sam entered. As his gigantic little brother stared down at him, Dean saw the now almost rote checklist in his gaze as it began again: hands empty, check. Rolled sleeves, far enough down to hide the Mark on his arm, check. Weary, slightly bloodshot eyes, still one-hundred percent green, check. 

Dean cleared his throat. “So, did you find the cooler yet?” 

“Yeah. Yeah—it was in the garage, like you thought. So, if you’re good to go—“ Sam’s gaze slipped to the desk by the wall, and he moved that way, another step, two steps, away from the bed. Dean watched in silence as Sam began gathering the remains of last night’s cholesterol extravaganza, brown paper wrappers, cup, and straw disappearing neatly into the oversized go bag, until his attention caught on a piece of paper, or something, concealed in his brother’s sling. A half inch of white corner protruded from the gap between cloth and arm. Not a paper, he realized. 

“What’s in the box, Sam?”

Sam froze for a moment before dropping the last wrapper into the bag. He turned again, meeting Dean’s eyes briefly before reaching into his sling with his good hand and drawing out a thin square box. He tapped it on the thumb of his wounded arm, once, twice, before crossing the room and holding it out to Dean. 

Dean tried on a smirk. “What’d you, you get me a, ‘thanks for not bashing my head in’ present?” 

Sam let out a huff of air. “You want to know what it is, take it.“

Dean took the box from the outstretched hand and opened the lid. His breath caught a moment when he saw what was inside. The black cord, the polished bronze face he’d never thought to see again. Gingerly, gently, he touched the cheek of the horned cow god, the amulet he had thrown away years ago. “Sammy---“ 

“Yes, I kept it, alright? Fished it out of that fucking wastebasket--Bobby held on to it for a while for me, he must've stuck it in one of those storage units of his. After, when Jodi brought us his books, his other things, well, there it was." Sam waved that memory away with a sweep of his hand. "I started carrying it around, when—you know--. For a while, when you were gone, I thought I could use it in a tracking spell—or maybe, I could use it to, to—“

“Summon me?” 

“Yeah, I suppose. Either way it didn’t work. The thing’s got some kind of power, though, and I thought—“ 

Sam ran his hand through his mop of hair, glancing away and then back at Dean, who still stared down into the box. “You don’t have to wear it, if you don’t want to. You know, just say the word—I’m going to archive it, if you don’t want it, so, speak now, I guess.

“Good idea. Leave it for the next Man of Letters to figure out. Bet you’ve got the index card all typed out and ready to go, huh?”  
Sam’s brow furrowed more deeply in irritation, or maybe concern, and Dean relented. “How about I take care of it for a while? Promise I’ll set it in its perfect spot when the time comes.” 

At that, Sam’s mouth quirked into a small grin that appeared and disintegrated with lightning speed. “Yeah, okay. Well, the beer’s in the fridge and the cooler’s half full of ice, so—“ 

“I’m almost ready. Be there in a sec.” 

His brother nodded, turning towards the door. 

“Sam?” 

“Don’t mention it.” The door closed softly behind Sam’s back. 

Dean gazed down at the bronze amulet. He wasn’t ready to pull the cord over his head, of that much he was sure. But the urge to pick it up, feel its weight, proved strong, and he plucked the cord out of the box, bringing the cow god’s face close to his own. Not ready.  
Maybe, though, he could wear it in another way. 

He pulled his shirt cuff up, over the brand on his forearm, and on to the middle of his bicep. The fingers of his left hand, entwined in the cord, brushed over the Mark as he did so, and he grimaced at the zing of achy pleasure the touch brought on. 

The cord wrapped once, twice, around his upper arm. Dean finished with a simple knot, pulling the amulet down through the cord loop. Not too tight—tight enough to hold it steady. The face now dangled down inside of his arm a few inches above the Mark. His own little mojo tourniquet. 

The grimace turned up into a bitter half smile. He felt the Mark’s protest against this new intruder, a bone-deep itch settling in. 

He might not be able to leave the amulet on for long--but the cord would hold. 

The thin, black cord was strong.


	2. Chapter 2

Starting is the hardest part. In Dean’s case, this time, that meant shouldering his duffle and stepping to the door. Entering the hallway and remembering the path to the garage. At least he didn’t have to walk past the eye-level gouge where he’d slammed the hammer into the wall instead of into his brother’s skull. Small favors, he thought. Small favors, and small gifts. The words echoed along with his footsteps, along with the slight rhythm of the amulet tied to his upper arm as it rocked back and forth with each step, along with an almost imperceptible itch on his forearm.

Sam had the trunk of the Impala open, his back to the doorway, and if his shoulders stiffened as Dean approached, neither of them said anything. He turned, acknowledging his brother with a glance and a nod. Dean pulled the duffle off of his shoulder and grasped its bottom handle, preparing to hoist it into the trunk. Without a word, Sam took the strap from him with his good hand and began to guide the bag towards an empty space in the corner of the trunk. Even with a busted shoulder, Dean thought. He held tight to the bottom of the duffle and slipped his free hand back onto the strap. It was no real contest, but the bag swung back and forth between them several times before they finally wrestled it into its spot.

Dean saw that the car was neatly packed with an unusual array of camping and fishing gear. Their old green cooler took up a big chunk of that space, but it dawned on him that he’d never seen many of its other contents before today. He reached in, brushed his fingers across the aluminum frame of an old nylon-webbed lawn chair, and then grasped a hardened leather tube which had been nestled precisely in a blanketed groove between cooler and chair. He pulled it out of the trunk.

Sam’s hand reflexively moved towards his own, as if he wanted to take the tube away, and place it back where it belonged. But he let his hand drop down to his side as Dean popped the chained cap off and peered inside.

“Huh.” He reached in and pulled out the handle of a bamboo fishing rod. He couldn’t remember ever seeing one quite like this before. It was a spinning rod, he thought, but the reel was actually part of the handle, not detachable like most modern models. The open steel cylinder with its slim posts for taking up the fishing line was integrated within a wooden handle that curved just a bit, like the grip of an antique pistol—or the hilt of a sword. Dean ran an appreciative palm over the wood with another soft, “Huh.”

He turned to Sam. “This thing must be from the '30s or '40s, right? You've been rummaging around in some poor dead Man of Letter’s lockbox again?”

“Hey, at least I’m not wearing his bathrobe and shuffling around like some Ghost of Legacies Past…" Sam blurted, then froze suddenly, dropping his gaze. More unspoken words pulsed between them. Kevin. Metatron’s Blade. Dean felt his own half smile curdling.

“Nah, never mind. It’s a nice rod. Probably a mother to load up the line, though.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

There was nothing to say to this. Dean dropped the rod back into its case, sealed down the cap, and stowed the tube back into Baby’s trunk. Sam closed the lid with a soft clunk, pulling the key quickly as the latch clicked home. He looked back at Dean’s face and held out the keys, another silent offering, and dropped them into Dean’s outstretched hand.

Baby waited, patiently gleaming, as Dean turned on his heel towards the driver-side door. “You cleaned her up.”

“Yeah—it was… I—“Sam mumbled as he walked around the other side. “Figured it was the least I could do.” His brows rose slightly, expectantly, in anticipation of Dean's response.

Sam’s nervous, too-young look pained Dean, the one that said, “Is it okay? We okay?” He tried not to wince, pasted on another grin instead. “Well, alright, then. Let’s find some moving water and test out that rod.” As he moved to the door, the remnants of the amulet’s shifting song whispered in his head.

Small gifts, small gifts, small favors, small gifts—

The Mark throbbed out a counterpoint. Remember how clean. Remember how easy. Remember the taking. Remember the lust.

As soon as he had slipped under the steering wheel and turned the key, Dean jabbed at the radio controls, willing both songs to silence. “Stifle yourselves—,” he thought, briefly wondering where he’d picked up that particular phrase.

Having pushed the controls to lift the garage doors, Sam settled into the shotgun seat. “Ready?” He asked, still too young, still too hopeful.

“Moving up and out, Sammy.”

He drove under the Men of Letters insignia above the door, into the dim tunnel beyond. He knew that the doors would close behind them, triggering the outside doors as they did, and wished he could retrieve that sense of being Batman, emerging from his secret cave. Maybe he could get it back now and then, if he didn’t try too hard. After all, Batman got pretty dark, too, didn’t he? Or really, he always was dark, under those grey spandex tights. Dean allowed a little smile to play across his face.

Small favors, small gifts.

Remember the _howl_ , the Mark insisted.

As they passed into the tunnel, a glint of light caught on the Aquarian star of the bunker’s creators. If Dean wondered momentarily about the source of that brightening light, he let it pass as he moved on. His eyes intent on the sudden darkness of the tunnel, he didn’t notice how it flared as the Impala passed under it as though it had been struck by an opposing force. He didn’t see the spark that was released from the insignia falling downward and the tunnel behind them. He didn't notice the spark as it slipped from spotlight to spotlight, following his Baby into the outside world, or see it pop out of existence at the mouth of the tunnel. The Mark sent a pulsing tingle up his right arm, though, which settled into that persistent itch as it met the amulet’s cord. They moved into the fading sunset colors, leaving both the light and the dark behind them.


	3. Chapter 3

The night was cool, comforting, and empty, and the Impala rumbled down the old blacktop highway like a ghost from another era. Dean shook himself and yawned, refocusing on the edge of light from her headlights’ glow, bringing his attention back to the task at hand. The Mark still throbbed in time to the wheel-song, but the amulet seemed to have fallen asleep. Or maybe, he thought, the Mark had just drowned out its little tune.

Dean had always liked driving at night, even before too many run-ins with the cops had made the nighttime and the back-country roads the routes of choice for his brother and him. Better to appear in a town at daybreak and slip away at dusk before anyone started to question why the Feds would authorize the mileage on a big old gas guzzler like his Baby, no matter how pretty she was. Better to glide through the night as far away from the interstate travel plazas as they could get, passing only farmhouses and barn-mounted security lights set far off the road. Better when his brother managed to doze off, and Dean was left to drive and listen to the radio instead of his thoughts.

Beside him Sam craned his neck in his sleep, no doubt trying to find a more comfortable spot against the chilly window. He’d settled his jacket on his lap like a blanket, and out of the corner of his eye Dean saw Sam’s fingers pluck at it. He reached over and pulled it up so that it covered part of Sam’s shoulder. His little brother sighed a bit, settling down into the seat, his legs curled up almost to his chin as his knees cleared the dashboard. Dean ought to pull onto the shoulder and tell him to climb into the back so he could stretch out. In another time, he would have.

But today, it was better not to talk. What would he say, anyway?

“I was worse than a dick?”

“Sorry you had to pull my lame ass out of a fire I started myself?”

“I don’t know what to do about the Mark?”

“How about that poor man’s Jack Nicholson impression, huh?”

Nah—

Dean flicked on the radio, snorting softly to himself as he recognized the song he’d landed on. John Fogerty’s high growl was advising him, “Better not complain, boy—you get in trouble with the man—“ as Credence’s bluesy guitars kicked in behind the lyrics. “Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me.” Someone out there had a twisted sense of humor. Dean relaxed and let the song wrap up his apologies and turn his thoughts away from the past week and towards the depths of CCR’s great swampy road trip rhythm. When he was a kid, he thought that the Midnight Special had to be some kind of hoodoo, or maybe a legendary ghost train. These days, it just sounded like freedom. He tapped his thumb on the steering wheel in time, checking the rear-view and the side mirrors.

Past Sam’s shaggy head, he could see the edge of a fence giving way to an open field. On the other side, dim shapes rose up here and there in the darkness. Nothing to worry about. Cows. Fenced in cows, shifting in their sleep as they huddled together in small groups.

As he turned his gaze back to the road, a flash of movement in the open field caught his attention and he tensed. A tawny flank flitted into view and disappeared. Another cow? Maybe a horse or a deer? He glanced again at the field, thought he saw a shape, running on four legs, in line with the road. Another flash and it was gone again, though he could have sworn he hadn’t seen it peel off.

That was a little weird for these parts, he thought. Cattle wouldn’t be out in an unfenced field at night, or any other time, and the only deer he’d ever seen around here tended to stick further away from the farms and roads. He’d have to keep an eye out. He turned the music up for the last chorus and hummed quietly as Fogerty rasped out his final plea to “let the Midnight Special-shine its ever-lovin’ light—on—me—“

As if on cue, with the fading notes, an animal burst from the shallow barrow pit on Sam’s side of the car, just at the edge of the headlights. Dean cursed, hit the brakes, swerving away to avoid slamming into it. The Impala shuddered but held steady to the road, while Sammy’s head bounced away and then back into the window with a jarringly loud thump.

The amulet rocked back and forth, one horn digging into Dean’s skin in protest.

The animal—a fricking kamikaze deer—hadn’t bolted over the fence on the driver’s side of the road like he’d expect any panicked but sane animal to do. No, this crazy Bambi angled off to the left of the car as he steered it back into his lane, for all the world like it was challenging him to a race.

Dean slowed to a near-crawl… no way he was going to play chicken with a psycho Bambi. He cautiously pulled the car parallel to it. Sam was starting to struggle upright, a hand on the side of his noggin, still sleep-dazed as his jacket slipped off his arms and down to the floor.

Dean stared at the deer now trotting along in the other lane as he began to edge the car past it. His hands were shaking a bit on the wheel from the adrenaline of the near miss, and he huffed out a breath. The deer stopped moving as they slipped by and swung its antlered head in his direction. He saw its huge dark eyes glimmer in the light.

They glittered from a human face.

He saw the nostrils flare, the mouth, god, a human mouth with lips, widen in a toothy grimace over a curled beard. Dean gasped in shock, slamming the brakes again, squeezing his eyes shut, the trembling of his hands intensifying. On his arm the amulet began to beat faintly, a soft counterpoint to the ever present throb of the Mark.

“Dean?” He opened his eyes and turned to Sam, who was now fully awake and furrowing his brows in concern. Dean waved it away, mutely, and turned back to his window.

The deer-man was gone.

“Hey, what’s going on?” he heard Sam ask as he slammed the car into ‘Park’ and pushed open his door. The familiar creak of the door hinge seemed too loud, the static-ridden commercial now playing on the radio and spilling out into the night air seemed too happy. His feet hit the blacktop. He stood still by the open car door looking up and down the highway. Nothing. Sam opened his door and got out, staring over the roof of the Impala at his brother. “Dean, you ok?”

“Yeah.” He turned around. “Yeah, man. Just almost hit Bambi, that’s all. Wondered—where it went—“ He took another deep breath and let it out in a slow rush. “Guess it shook me up a bit.”

“You want me to drive for a while? You could, I don’t know, get some rest?”

Dean was about to say no, that he was good to go, but stopped himself as he studied Sam’s face. The kid would probably spend the next hundred miles silently checking up on him if he kept driving. He nodded, almost to himself. “OK. Keep an eye out for kamikaze cows, though. My Baby’s been through enough already.”

He couldn’t stop himself from watching the roadsides and glancing behind them as they resumed, even though he saw nothing but far-off house lights. Maybe he’d imagined it, he thought, wiggling down in the seat to find a sweet spot. The amulet rocked again as he crossed his arms, seeming to sing quietly in his head, “li-ar.” He touched it, briefly feeling the shape of the face through his jacket sleeve, stilling the movement. His fingers then moved down to settle on the Mark.

Sam’s lips pressed into a straight line as he reached for the radio without taking his eyes off the road. He ran through two or three stations that Dean would have liked to stop at before finding some talk radio program. NPR or something, two guys talking back and forth, sounded like a philosophy class.

Dean sighed.

Still, he listened to about an hour of thrilling conversation on the subject of determinism before he was able to push the memory of that freaky-faced thing down. Sam glanced over at him a few times, but said nothing as the highway rolled on under the headlights and the voices droned over the airwaves. Finally his eyelids grew heavy and he let his chin sink onto his chest as he drifted into a fitful sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Pale red daylight pressed against Dean’s eyelids as he stirred, raising a hand to his face to wave it off. He felt the leather seat against his back, the creaking pain in his neck when he lifted his head, eyes stubbornly shut. Still in the car, though the engine was silent. The cord around his arm shifted and tightened, the Mark pulsed once in response, and Dean opened his eyes.

The driver’s seat was empty. He straightened up, peering out the windshield at the edge of a blacktop parking lot surrounded by shallow-rooted sagebrush, the dust green branches barely holding on to the rusty earth. The Impala was perched at the edge of the blacktop parking lot, which was nearly empty. The pale light that washed across her windows indicated early morning. Sometime. Somewhere. He had just spotted a low brown building out his side window, with a yellow lettered sign naming it a TRADING POST, when his view was filled by Sam’s familiar tan jacket and wrong-looking arm sling. His little brother tapped the window with the knuckles of his trapped hand, his other grasping a bag and drink tray with two cups of what Dean hoped was strong black coffee.

Sam backed out of the way as he pushed open the car door, swinging his feet out onto the asphalt and maneuvering his way out of the passenger seat. He pretended to miss the amused quirk of Sam’s lips at the length of time it took him to uncurl, but finally he was out and breathing the sage-heavy morning air. He stretched and groaned as he squinted over at Sam, then took the tray from him and negotiated with it to release one of the cups, which he set on the roof of the car next to Sam’s injured arm. The second cup went easier, and Dean tossed the tray onto the bench seat.

Sam put the bag down on the Impala’s trunk in the meantime, opening it and fishing out a burrito-shaped object wrapped in foil which he handed to Dean. His own came next, and Dean watched him awkwardly open the breakfast sandwich by spreading the now empty bag on the trunk and placing his wrap in its center to peel back the foil with his good arm.

“I could—ah—help you with that. You know, if—“

“I’ve got it, thanks.”

Dean took a sip of his coffee. Black, yes, if you thought that meant just the absence of creamer and sugar. Even with the lid on, he could tell the color of the coffee was closer to a tepid watery brown. He grimaced. “So where exactly are we enjoying this fine meal?”

Sam glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “You’re usually a bit more observant.” He nodded towards the opposite side of the parking lot, up and over Dean’s shoulder.

Dean turned, following Sam’s gaze up towards the sky, realizing their view of the morning clouds was dominated by an enormous column of rock which the sunrise had wrapped in swathes of pink and orange. The column, only about five miles away from where they were standing, rose up from the swells of red earth and scrubby trees around its base to an unimaginable height, as massive as a skyscraper, grooved up its sides in rigid straight rows that reminded him somehow of tree bark. Some deep part of his mind set up a quiet buzz. He knew this place, though he’d never been here. Closing his mouth so Sam wouldn’t see it hanging agape, he turned back to the parking lot. Avoiding his brother’s expectant expression, he sighed, looking around. Asphalt and log cabin cafeterias were so much easier to deal with than that look. Still trying to understand where Sam had driven them, he said, “You brought us to see a rock?”

Sam huffed, looking down at Dean’s feet and then back up. “Dude, it’s Devils Tower.”

“Huh.” Of course he knew this place.

Sam continued over his brother’s quiet interjection. “I figured, you know, seeing as how we’re on vacation, and we’ve never seen it up close—well, I haven’t anyway—I took a little detour.”

Dean turned back to the Tower. Little detour? He ran through the highway map in his brain. How was a three hour drive off their original route a “little detour”? Behind him, Sam was still explaining.

“You remember, when we were kids, we’d always drive across Highway 14 on the way to Bobby’s or just to get to the next place. I’d find myself looking for it, as soon as we came down off the mountains. Sort of felt like seeing it—out there, a hundred miles from the road—I guess it gave me my bearings, somehow. So I was driving last night and saw one of those brown landmark signs telling me to take this road to get to Devils Tower. And I took it.”

Dean grinned. “Uh-huh. You always liked that movie, too.” He bit off a chunk of breakfast burrito and chewed absently, glancing over his shoulder and then back up at the column. “The one with the massive ET ship, rising up over this thing like a big ass moon.”

“Not ET. Close Encounters.”

“Yeah, that one.” He turned fully around to face Sam. “Gotta say, I somehow missed you making your Devils Tower sculpture out of your mashed potatoes last night. Not that you eat mashed potatoes.”

“Whatever. So, what do you say? Morning walk up to the base and then a little fishing? I saw an access spot not far from here.”

Dean half-shrugged, tipping his head briefly towards Sam, and leaned up against the car door. He concentrated on polishing off his breakfast as his brother detailed the instructions on how to get to the trail parking lot. Pretty much a straight shot from the sounds of it, he just had to follow the signs. His eyes roamed over the nearly empty lot and he cut in to ask, “What time is it, anyway? Where are all the tourists?”

Sam’s lightning-fast grin appeared. “It’s early enough. The guy at the counter said this time of day is mostly for the rock-climbers up on the Tower. We might even get the trail to ourselves.” His gaze shifted back to the monolith, and Dean caught the wistful faraway gleam that took over his expression. He wondered if his little brother was imagining the spaceship from that movie again, maybe even wishing he could climb up ET’s loading dock like Dreyfuss surrounded by little grey children, and take off into the stars. He couldn’t say he’d blame him if he did.

Belatedly, he realized that the buzzing he was feeling in his body was not coming from his mind, but seemed to originate in the amulet. A high, persistent note sang up his arm and down towards his hand, stopping short above the Mark on his forearm. Dean reached up, covered the bronze face hidden beneath his sleeve with his palm, not caring whether Sam would see. He brushed it lightly, and the buzzing faded. He reached in his mind towards the Mark, thinking at it, asking it— _You want to chime in here, too?_ But the brand was silent.

“As long as we’re here, might as well get a closer look.” Dean balled up his foil wrapper and tossed it on top of the drink tray. “Who knows, maybe we’ll have a close encounter of our own.” He started gathering up the remains of their breakfast.

Sam pulled a single apple out of his coat pocket, watching him. “You don’t believe in aliens.” He tossed the apple at Dean, who caught it in his free hand.

“Well, yeah—but who says I don’t want to believe?” He absently stuffed the apple into his own jacket pocket.

Sam had retrieved a second apple from somewhere. “Okay, Mulder.”

“Good one, Scully. Okay.” Trash deposited in the closest can, Dean wheeled around towards the driver’s side door while Sam bit down on the fruit. _Okay_ , he thought. _Not so much._ He reached across the seat, pushed open the passenger door so that little brother could climb in and eat at the same time. _Not so much, when I start talking to a cow god and a damned mark of evil in my head. Like I think they’re gonna talk back._ A flash of the bizarre kamikasi deer from the night before raced through his thoughts, but he brushed it away with a palm across his eyes. _Really not so much._

The drive up to the base took less than ten minutes. Dean pulled the Impala into a teardrop-shaped parking lot near the top of a little rise and found a spot on the south side, near the exit. The tower was visible through and above a sparse stand of trees. The path leading to it curved up the hill, just a short walk to the base. The counterman had been telling the truth; only two other cars were parked up here, and no one was in sight.

He surveyed the area as he exited the car. A small visitor’s center sat at the fat loop of the teardrop, but it looked closed. Up here the scent of sage and pine was even stronger, and he could hear the zig-zagging hum of insects in the shrubs just below them. A bird screeched somewhere, and another answered with a more melodic lament. The tower, though, demanded his attention, and he found himself gazing at it again. Sam nodded in satisfaction at it, too, starting out towards the path with a single glance back and a shrug, making sure he was following.

As Dean passed the squat little visitor’s center, he caught a glimpse of something low and brown just past the corner of the building. At first he thought it might be a rock, except for the way its tawny shade seemed to shimmer in the strengthening light. He focused on it, unconsciously reaching around to his back for his pistol. Not there, of course—they were on vacation, and the guns were locked under piles of fishing and camping equipment in the trunk. Sam didn’t seem to see anything wrong, he was tossing his apple core into the wastebasket in front of the building and walking with quick steps towards the corner. Dean saw him lick his fingers as he neared the shape, completely oblivious. The shape hadn’t moved, but as he refocused, he saw its surface ripple once and then go still. A muscle twitch. _Son of a bitch._ He sped up, angling to get in between Sam and the shape. “Hey!” he shouted.

The shape seemed to uncoil and lengthen, melting into the brush. The branches did not waver as it disappeared. Dean pulled up at the end of the building, peering into the space he’d been so sure was occupied by some predator. No sign of anything but dirt, not so much as a paw print or drag mark marred the soft earth under the shrubs. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered.

Sam was staring at him warily. Again. “Dean, what’s up?”

_Okay, Winchester,_ Dean thought. _Get it together. Sammy doesn’t need you hallucinating on him right now._

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s safe to hike here, right? Should we grab one of the guns, just in case?”

“In case of what?”

“Umm—mountain lion?”

Sam shook his head, turned back around. “Dude, we agreed—no weapons, no hunting, remember?”

“Right.” He sighed as he followed his brother towards the trail.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam allowed the silence to stretch between them as they approached the trail head. He paused in front of a dusty bronze information plaque that sat, squatting on two posts, at the end of the lot. Dean stopped, too, alongside his brother, and waited for movement or a word. The plaque welcomed them to the Tower in raised letters, and illustrated the path they were to take to the base, admonishing them to stay on the trail, not to feed or pet the wildlife, and to take nothing with them when they left. Dean traced the bronze trail with a finger and glanced around. No freaky deer, no rippling shadows, no other people—

“What?” Sam asked. “You’re looking for something.”

“What would I be looking for—huh? Nothing here but sage scented chipmunks. And a really big—” Dean shrugged one shoulder, “—impressive—monstrous hunk of rock pretending to be a tree trunk.”

Sam stared at him, raising an eyebrow, and Dean felt himself starting to cave in under that skeptical appraisal. He took a breath, and grasped the amulet under his coat, trying to find in its edges a place to start, or a way to describe last night’s fevered dream. Buckle up, you two, he thought. Here we go.

Before the words could tumble out, though, Sam seemed to relent, and turned towards the trail. “It’s made of volcanic rock that pushed up through the sandstone sediment. The columns and grooves formed as it cooled. Then the soft rock eroded away and left the--trunk. It does look like a tree, doesn’t it?” He took a few steps along the graveled path, “Or maybe like claw marks, like bear claws.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean put a cautious foot onto the trail.

“Yeah, you know, most of the lore about the Tower has to do with bears.”

“Oh, so not aliens, then.”

Sam snorted. “Only for Spielberg, I guess. No—I’ve read stories about a woman seduced away from her husband by a bear when they were camping near here, or two brothers returning from a hunting trip who were chased by a huge bear—” He shot a sideways glance at Dean. “And, the name of the place, too, you know—the Souix called it Mato Tipila, apparently, which means “Bear Lodge”. But the story goes that a cavalry officer who passed by here sometime in the 1870’s asked his guide what the formation was called, he misunderstood the response, thinking the name meant “a bad place”—so—it became “Devil’s Tower.” I don’t know, though, man—it seems to me that Europeans have a thing about naming strange landscapes after the Devil—like he cares to make anything—“

As Sam trailed off, Dean prompted him. “Right. So, bears, huh?”

“Right. Anyway—“

The amulet’s hum suddenly shot up an octave. Dean winced, resisting the urge to cover his ears with his palms. Up ahead, Sam was still telling stories. 

“Did you see the picture on the board outside the trading post?”

Dean started to shake his head, struggling to remember anything through the hum and the drumbeat going on in in his head. But then an image came to him, as if carried forward on the soundwaves. “Wait, the one with the grizzly the size of Godzilla?”

“Trying to climb the Tower, yeah—that one.” Sam was still walking, pacing a few feet ahead of his brother. “Don’t know where it came from, but I think it’s supposed to be the giant bear chasing the brothers. There’s another version, though, that I liked better—this one has seven sisters—“

“Sisters, like—seven of them?” Dean perked up, “Alright, this I gotta hear.” As he lifted his leg to take another step, Dean felt something invisible brush against his foot, something like an oversize housecat. He jumped back with an involuntary yelp as the discordant music in his head abruptly ceased.

Sam stopped and turned to check on him, and he gazed back, sheepishly ducking his head. “Almost stepped in a pile of something—“

“Whatever, dude—are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, I am. I’m good. Tell your story.” Dean’s eyes darted from one side of the path to the other, but saw nothing working its way through the underbrush. 

Sam crossed his arms. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

“No. I’m ok, Sammy. I need you to believe that I’m ok.”

“You’re not. Dean, five days ago, you—weren’t you. And last night and today—you’re making me nervous, alright? If something is going on—“

Dean held up a hand. _I’m talking to the Mark and the little bronze god-face and they’re singing back. I’m seeing the revenge of Bambi or some damn thing._ “I dunno. Maybe, I’m having some—adjustment issues?”

His little brother shook his head. “If something is going wrong, you know you can tell me, right?”

 _I think the amulet is keeping the Mark under wraps somehow, and I don’t want to give that up._ “Please, can we just go see the thing? Look for spaceship scorch marks and whistle at the rock climbers?” Over Sam’s shoulder, Dean caught a glimpse of something, a low tawny something slipping silently out of the trees and onto the path. He’d never seen one close, but he thought it might be a mountain lion. He reached out, grabbing at Sam’s good arm.

The cat paused and looked back as if to see if he would follow. It stared at him with pale blue, almond shaped eyes. Human eyes. Dean’s grip tightened as the creature huffed and turned away, trotting around a curve in the path and out of sight.

Sam’s eyes were on him, wide with concern. “What?? Did you—are you—“

“Seeing things? I dunno, maybe my imaginary friend wants to see the big scary bear rock, too.” He glanced up into Sam’s face, and away again. The Mark sent a hot spear up his forearm and he wondered why Sam couldn’t hear it sizzle. “So come on, let’s go.” He lifted his chin and gave Sam a nudge forward.


	6. Chapter 6

The cat with the ice blue eyes was nowhere in sight as Dean rounded the corner. Of course it had vanished. Not like monsters or spirits—or whatever—to stop and explain themselves. Except for the chatty ones—

Behind him he could hear Sam’s exasperated sigh, and he felt bad, for a moment, that he’d probably ruined his brother’s nostalgia trip with his own trippy confession. At least the truth was sort of “out there” now. He smiled to himself as the phrase brought the little gray aliens back to mind.

The trail was short, an easy walk, and every step brought new views of the Tower through the trees. Dean maintained his lead, five steps in front of Sam, who didn’t try to catch up. He knew what was going on under that mop of hair. His brother was trying to find his next opening, racking his formidable brain searching for the right question to ask. But Dean only knew he didn’t have any answers. The amulet tick-tocked against his arm with each step.

As they cleared the trees a field of stone spread open before them, great sharp boulders tinged pink with the last of the sunrise. The path narrowed up ahead, threading its way through the broken rocks and rising towards the Tower face. A hundred feet up the slope Dean saw a tawny back slip down between two boulders. _Like it was just waiting for me to show._

“Dean.” Sam had drawn even with his brother.

“Animals,” Dean said.

“Animals? Huh—“

“Yeah. With human faces.”

Sam looked down, frowning, and nodded once. “When did it start?”

“Me seeing things?” Dean shrugged. “Last night. The deer with the death wish.”

“So—could it be a holdover? I mean, does the Mark—“

“Not so much. Not these kinds of hallucinations, anyway. “ Dean couldn’t meet his brother’s gaze. “Look, Sammy, I’m sorry. You don’t need to worry about this, and it’s not like my imaginary friends are attacking us or telling me to do anything—at all. They’re just being kinda stalkery.”

Sam shook his head, huffed out a strained chuckle. “How weird is it that this is our best possible scenario?”

“Tell me about it.”

Sam gave another curt nod, glanced at Dean and then up at the path winding its way towards the Tower’s edge. “Let me know if that changes?”

“Deal.”

As if all was decided, the two brothers continued up the narrow path. The sun had just made it over the lip of the Earth, but the boulders now lining their way on either side were still soaked in last night’s cold air. Dean pulled his jacket collar up around his neck, shoved his hands in his pockets.

The amulet rocked, whispered, _Goood boy._

 _Shut up_ , he told it.

Here and there, tucked between the rocks, he could see little bundles of bright cloth, mostly on the uphill side of the path. He nodded towards one of them, catching Sam’s attention. “Hex bags?”

“Prayer bundles.”

The Mark gave a little pulse that echoed up his arm towards the amulet, stopping at the cord in an abrupt splash that was almost a snort. _What’s the difference?_ he wondered. Up ahead something flashed in the morning light and was gone. He clenched his jaw but said nothing.

The Tower filled more and more of the sky as they drew near on the crooked path until it blocked the rising sun. Dean could see the columns of stone that made up its face more clearly. Their edges joined in perfect rows, except where sections had broken and tumbled down into the boulder field, leaving uneven overhangs that reminded him of stairs or eaves. Closer to the base, more people had left their bundled offerings. Some bits of cloth had faded and sunk into rocky crevices, while others were still crisp and bright, looking like they’d been carefully placed just the day before.

They were close to the base now, and Sam stopped to crane his neck up, just like he did when he was a kid and Dad would be forced to take them into a city. Dean remembered the look of wonder that would take over his little brother’s face at the sight of the skyscrapers, and for an instant he caught it again in Sam’s unwrinkled brow. Wonder was not for Dean, though, and he dropped his gaze back to the edge of the monolith, seeking out fissures and hidden faces.

Another flash, this time from the shadowed base, dazzled his eyes. At the same moment the amulet let out a high pitched hum and he clapped his hand over his upper arm as if to stifle it. It droned on, undeterred. “Damn it,” he mumbled, risking a glance at Sam. His brother had turned away, thankfully, and hadn’t seemed to have noticed. Dean focused on the Tower again, scanning for the source of the flash.

At first, there was nothing. Then, rising out of the rocks, the big cat’s arched back reappeared. When it reached the edge of the cliff it turned and sauntered along the base. Dean resisted the urge to grab at the back of Sam’s jacket, instead jamming his fists further into his own pockets, and followed the cat’s progress as it glided closer to them with ease. It was only about twenty five yards from the path when it finally stopped, nosing at one of the cracks the wall. It turned its icy stare to him and dipped its head. Its face seemed rounder now than when he saw it downhill on the path, its nose pronounced and flared, its chin sporting a thin black beard. It looked at him steadily, and he felt the challenge in its eyes. He dropped his own gaze, unable to keep up his side of the standoff, ashamed of the Mark now beating against the amulet’s hum once more.

The cat bobbed its shoulders and slipped itself into the crack in the wall. Dean knew he had to follow— it was time to confront the thing. He began scrambling upward. 

The rock field was more treacherous than it looked, but he would not turn back now, and even when his footing slipped and threatened to wedge his boot in between two chunks of granite, he kept his eyes trained on the spot where the cat had vanished. _Stubborn ass_ , the Mark beat out. _Yeah, you can pipe down, too_ , he told it.

Behind him he could hear Sam shouting at him, but he didn’t turn around. The clatter of small rocks below told him that his brother had started after him. _Damn kid—he’s going to hurt himself trying to rock climb with one arm_ , Dean thought. He stopped, but kept his gaze on the base.

“Wait there, Sam. I’ll be right back.”

“You’re kidding, right? Dean, what do you think you’re doing?”

“I just have to get a closer look, that’s all. I mean it, wait there for me.”

“Or you’ll do what?”

Dean didn’t answer, just shook his head and started climbing again. He knew when Sam began picking his way forward, too, but at least his caution was slowing him down. _Good_ , Dean thought.

As he approached the crack, he saw that it formed an entrance into the rock, its width partially hidden by a column edge. Still, he didn’t think he could squeeze in easily. Upside, though, it was definitely too small for Sam to get in, if the cat decided to lead Dean further in. He hoped that wasn’t the plan—cave diving was not his idea of a good time.

Sam was still fifteen yards down the slope when Dean reached the mouth. He stooped a bit and peered in, seeing nothing but black. “Here, kitty,” he whispered. Did something respond? A glint of gold caught at the corner of his eye, another spark of blue chasing it into the dark, before both vanished around a corner. He shivered at the cold radiating out of the cave. “Right,” he said to himself. “Bad idea.”

He slipped one foot into the entrance, turning sideways, leading with his right shoulder in a half-crouch. Sam was cussing at him again, and Dean waved his left arm at him, palm up, signaling him to stop. He leaned further into the crack, his torso now almost filling it, crouching down further to try and catch another glimpse of the lights. His marked and amulet-wrapped arm reached in, seeking out the rock edge, and he breathed a sigh of relief when his fingers met stone.

As he touched it, the rock gave off a hissing crackle, and he pulled his hand away quickly. He heard a low rumble from somewhere back in the fissure, and a jolt of fear jerked his body back up and away from the darkness. He’d moved too fast, though. His shoulder wedged into the opening. The rumble grew louder, turned into a growl, and a hot breeze rushed towards his face. Sparks of gold and blue danced in the rush of air as he tried to push himself out of the entrance, fear making his movements graceless and unproductive.

He could hear Sam now, just a few feet away, and he shouted, “No—get back!”

 _Holy crap_ , Dean thought as the sparks flew towards him. Into the depths of the fissure he said, “I’m sorry.”

The hum, the beat, and the growl joined together in a wild chorus that overwhelmed his mind as the breeze reached him, flowing around and through his body. The sparks struck his chest, arm and face, until he was wrapped in noise and light and stone.

Eyes closed tight, he attempted to shield his face with his arm against the wind that tore through him unabated. Roaring through his very being, the wind crashed against his mind, driving him deeper and deeper into himself, until finally everything went utterly silent and black.


	7. Chapter 7

“Goddamn it, Dean—you can’t do—Open your eyes!”

 _Why’d you follow me, Sammy? Just let me go. Let me --_ But Dean complied, dragging numb fingers across his face and willing his lids to open over his gravelly eyes. Then he jerked upright in a jolt of panic. He was in a pitch black space.

“Sam?”

His brother’s voice seemed to answer him, but it was echoing and small, coming from a long way off. He called again, and this time was only answered by his own echo bouncing off into the darkness.

Dean took a long, shaky breath, and let it out, putting his hand to his chest. He could feel his still-racing heartbeat. _So, that’s good, I guess._ He was sitting on a hard surface, dotted here and there with sharp little points which he could now feel pressing into his jeans. Pebbles, he thought. He felt for the surface to either side, and found solid stone beneath his fingertips. He raised his left arm, sweeping it out to the side and then over his head. Nothing.

 _Better than a pine box, anyway_. The thought sent another spike of adrenaline through him as the memory of that sudden awakening broke through from the depths of his memory. He pushed it away, waving his arms as if he could physically shove it away and re-bury it.

“Okay, you jerk,” he whispered. The sound of his voice met dead air, dropping into his lap instead of moving out into the dark. Louder, he said, “You got yourself in here. Now move your ass.”

The amulet startled him as it shook back and forth on its own, warming the spot on his right arm where it hung. Dean wondered for a moment if it was laughing at him.

He rolled to his knees and planted one foot on the rock floor, then slowly stood up. His shoulders hunched protectively as he rose and he raised his arm, the marked and protected arm, over his head, unsure if he was hoping to touch a ceiling or dreading it. “Damn, I’m 90 years old right now,” he muttered.

There was no ceiling within reach and no wall at his fingertips when he stretched his arm down. He could feel nothing but the rock beneath his feet. The darkness pushed in on him like a velvet cocoon. In spite of the solid ground, Dean felt as though he could tip head over heels off the side of the earth at any second. He cursed again, even louder this time. “Alright, you son of a bitch! Enough with the hide and seek—where the hell are you?” Another deadened, hollow echo met his yell.

But… A soft scuffing noise rose out of the blackness, somewhere to his right, and he spun in its direction, letting out an involuntary yelp as he almost lost his balance. Another scuff, a little closer now, reached his ears. “Hey!”

No response. “I need a light,” he said to himself. _Light—light—light--er—_ rocked the amulet. Dean could have smacked his head in frustration. Why hadn’t he remembered his lighter? He fished it out of his front pocket. As he struck the flame, a pair of blue eyes flashed, low to the ground, at the edge of the tiny pool of light. Dean took a step back, but the cat’s eyes did not fade from view. It stepped with him.

“What do you want?” he asked it. _Want—want—_ the amulet echoed. He waited for the Mark to pulse out some rebuttal, but it was silent. In fact, for the first time since he’d put the amulet on he realized that the thing was not pulsing, itching, or beating against the cord in any way.

“Did you do that?” The cat stared impassively back. Then it turned and slunk out of his light. He heard its claws tap stone several feet away, and knew the cat had let him hear it.

Great—more follow the leader-- His lighter was growing hot, and he released the trigger, keeping the device gripped tightly in his hand. He shuffled forward, marked arm outstretched. “You better not be leading me over a cliff!” he yelled at the cat, the effect lessened by a tremor he couldn’t quite control. If the animal really wanted to hurt him, now would be the time. _Who’s to say I wouldn’t deserve it? Not me._ Another set of clawed taps sounded ahead, across the cavern, and he followed.

Sometimes the steps ahead of him clattered on the rocks, sometimes they were just faint scratching sounds. Always the creature was just out of the edge of his light when Dean flicked on the lighter. As they walked, the corridor grew narrower, until he finally could see at the edge of the glow in his hand, a shadowy cavern wall to his left. He sighed with relief and moved to touch the rock. It kept him upright, feeling more secure as they continued.

The cavern continued to narrow, and after a while, Dean could see the other side wall, close enough that he could stretch out and touch both sides if he wanted. _Okay, this is good, so long as I don’t have to start crawling._ A few steps further, the left wall seemed to curve away gently. He became aware that the darkness was beginning to lose its thick velvet, turning a grayish shade of blue like the morning light before dawn. Could the cat actually be leading him out of here? He quickened his pace.

“Is that the end of the tunnel?” he shouted. Of course, no answer. But Sam’s voice burbled up in his mind, another memory echoing in his head as if in reply. _That’s hellfire._ Shit, it seemed like his brain had his greatest hits on Replay.

The gray continued to lighten as the tunnel wended its way out from under the earth, but the source of the light still seemed to be always around the next bend. The cat was nowhere in sight. Dean tucked his lighter back into his pocket and walked on.

The end of the tunnel came abruptly as he rounded the final corner. His eyes had been gradually adjusting to the growing light, but still, he had to squint at the sudden shaft of sunlight, and the colors it brought with it. The cat was lying on the stone floor, tail twitching, its face turned away from Dean, staring into a small opening in the cave wall. The cave mouth was wide enough for a man to pass through, and its sides tapered gracefully up until they met in a pointed arch that reminded Dean of parted and tied-back curtains or a church door. Even from this far away, he could see golden grasses waving in a breeze, and red clay earth under a bright sky. His heart sped up in anticipation as he closed the distance to the big cat.

When he had almost reached it, the creature stood and performed an acrobatic stretch, its front paws reaching towards the cave mouth as if in prayer while its hind quarters rose into the air. It straightened without hurry and turned its gaze on him. He could have reached out and stroked the top of its head, but the cat’s stare held him fast. It seemed not to challenge, but to contain some almost human emotion. Sorrow? Satisfaction? As Dean pulled up short, the cat gathered its weight onto its hindquarters and lept through the cave's mouth.

As it passed through the opening, the cat's body erupted in a shower of green and gold sparks, and for a moment he saw a much larger, antlered shadow chasing the cat. He could hear the breeze outside, and caught just the hint of ozone smell in the air. And then the cat was out of the cavern and whole in the sunlight. Dean put out his hand, touched the inside edge of the opening, which was warm to the touch, and stepped towards the cat.

His toe and forehead almost simultaneously struck a solid barrier, causing him to yelp in surprise. An invisible force blocked his path, preventing him from leaving the cave. Incredulous, he pushed his hand against it, feeling a smooth surface where there should have been nothing but open space. The cat stood on the other side, gazing at him, expressionless.

Dean slammed his fist against the barrier. “What the hell?” he shouted. The cat turned away, dipping its head as it moved into the grass. “Come back here, you asshole!” In a new panic, he scrabbled at the edges of the cave mouth, and at the barrier, looking for some opening, some trigger, some way out. It was no use. He slammed his fist against the invisible wall with a scream of rage.

Suddenly spent, he sank down against the wall, cheek pressed against the barrier, feeling his fear and anger give way to a sense of futility. He rested his open palm against the barrier, slapping it once. “Thanks for showing me to the fucking window of your fucking safe—“

The amulet rocked and chimed in his head.

_Safe—safe—you’re safe--_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, sometimes it's a slow run in the dark--I'm happy that readers are still finding and "hitting" this story! Thank you so much to obelus and imwithharvey for their kind words. Their reviews, kudos and hits encourage me to make for the finish line, which I promise I can see up ahead. But do you like it? Hate it? Let me know in the comments!


	8. Chapter 8

There was no sound in the cave, except for his ragged breaths. No wind whistled through the cave entrance. _Not an entrance_ , Dean thought, as he looked out upon the shrubs and grasses waving against a breeze he could not feel. _It’s a No Exit scam, a locked window where there should be a door._ He couldn’t see any piles of boulders or rock shale outside, just grass clumps clinging to the red earth, which was streaked here and there with tan or gray sandy dirt. Dust clouds passed by on the breeze, swirling past the big cat where it reclined nearby with its back to him and its freaky face on its paws. Through the cave entrance he could see a distant stand of trees, taller than the ones they’d walked through to get to the Tower. He wondered where he was now.

_I oughta rip this damn thing off my arm._ Dean broke the silence with a groan, knocking the back of his head on the rock wall behind him. He took a deep breath, then released it slowly while gathering his thoughts. The amulet said he was safe? He sighed—well, he wasn’t going to do any damage in here by himself. And the Mark had calmed—for now—so maybe it wasn’t going to kill him, either. Safe. Maybe, if a prisoner is safe in his cell. _Maybe I don’t want to be safe._

Another breath, and he shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his right sleeve. The amulet rocked but remained silent as the little face came into view. Grasping the knot in the cord above the amulet, he pulled it away from his skin to untie it.

The Mark pulsed like a deep wound, suddenly flowing, and sent a sickening jolt through his heart and into his gut. He gasped and released the cord.

“Shit.” His hands were shaking. “Maybe not. Not yet.” He passed a palm over his face, fighting down a sudden urge to laugh. _Why fight, though? Not like anyone will hear it if I make like the Joker for no damn reason. And I got a pretty damn good reason here--_ The thought forced a snort of laughter out of him, a choking, too highly pitched sound that was disturbing even to him. He needed to breathe. He needed to get a grip.

Okay.

Window’s locked.

Maybe there’s a door?

He grabbed his jacket and stood up, stepping away from the entrance wall, and turned to scan the room.

Something—someone—had lived here once. By the light filtering in from the window he could see that the far wall of the cave appeared to be covered with markings and drawings. Most were charcoal black lines, but here and there were rusty splashes of red. They flowed upwards, higher than even Sam could have reached, cascading into each other and forming an unusual mosaic. Dean moved closer to the other wall. He thought he recognized some warding sigils, or versions of them, set side by side with images that could be animals, others that he swore were profiles of faces. “Someone had a lot of time on their hands.”

The mosaic curved outward into the deeply shadowed corners, and the arched and pointed light reflecting from the window hit it at dead center. His own shadow, starting a couple of feet under the top of the arch, cut the design in half as he stood in the window. Dean turned to his left, eyes following the lines and shapes flowing in that direction. A strip of the cave floor was bare and clean from the window to the mosaic, as though a path had been swept or well-trodden, but as he moved into the dimmer light, he began to notice more stones and pebbles, then scraps of things that appeared man-made. Paper. Bits of cloth. Metal shards.

Still under the arch of sigils and faces, just before its edge, he found a large flat stone, long enough for a bed, which rose about a foot up from the cave floor. It was covered with scraps of cloth and wood shavings that seemed to be in some sort of order. Like a table piled high with someone’s abandoned project. The debris seemed to be clear of the black markings. He wondered briefly where the near-white wood might have come from.

The light began to dim as he moved further away from the window. The cave wall curved back towards the opening before he’d gone a dozen steps past the stone table. He saw another spot where the floor was swept clean, except for a pile of something centered directly beneath the lip of a low overhang. More pale wood shavings and sticks in a shallow bowl, carved into the cave floor. The ends of some of the sticks were charcoal black. A fire pit? Dean touched the wall above the pile and his fingers came away dark with soot. The stain ran directly up the wall—there had to be a chimney or shaft here. He crouched and craned his neck to look at the bottom edge of the overhang. Sure enough, a fissure ran along half its length. It was dark and narrow. Maybe he could get his arm in there, but that would be about it.

Frustrated, he angrily slapped at the stained wall, and grimaced at the sharp pain that radiated from his hand into his forearm. The Mark seemed to pulse in time to throb of his palm. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled into the fissure. His voice echoed away into the dark. And then it was answered.

Not Sam’s voice this time. Another kind of huffing breath growled back at him. Like an animal, snorting as its senses detected something unexpected, unwanted. The sound came a second time, louder, and was followed by a deep, rumbling grunt. Dean jerked away from the pit. 

“Oh—yeah—feeling really fuckin safe here—“

He backtracked past the mosaic of sigils to the tunnel entrance where he’d come in. It was the only other opening to this cave that he could see, and he approached it warily, trying to silence his footsteps as he neared it. The darkness in the tunnel was like a living thing, undulating and absorbing his shadow as he entered the tunnel mouth, retreating only slightly before him as he looked around the corner. It was silent and still, and he cursed himself now for not trying to mark his trail to the cat’s cave.

_Still, oughta try and backtrack,_ he thought. _What’d ya say?_ The amulet and the Mark held their peace. “Guess the cat got your tongues—“ he half-grinned at his joke as he touched the tunnel wall with his left hand and let it lead the way. _Can’t go by lighter light, though._ He moved a few steps into the tunnel and followed the wall around the corner into the darkness. Maybe he could rig up some kind of torch with the firewood and the bits of cloth in the cave. It’d get him a little way, anyhow. One of the burned sticks might be enough to mark his path in charcoal---

His fingers touched a corner of something smooth, something that shouldn’t be there. The Mark throbbed as he stopped and pushed both hands out in front of his body, sweeping over another barrier in front of him, this one blocking the tunnel. His only way out.

His heart sank and panic again rose in his chest. He tried to focus on the barrier, pushing harder against it, measuring it with his fingertips. It stretched across the tunnel mouth and as far as he could reach overhead. Another smoothly sealed window, with a view of only shifting darkness. “I don’t believe this—I don’t believe it—“ he was whispering, over and over. The barrier didn’t require his belief.

He leaned his forehead against the barrier, rapped his fists at it, once, twice. He’d told Sam that he deserved killing for the things he’d done as a demon. Maybe the amulet agreed. _You don’t know what I’ve done—_

Sam might not know, but Dean did. He remembered all of it, from the moment he’d awoken with the feel of hardened leather in his hand. The demons Crowley sent him were just fodder, but there had been others. The girl in Omaha. The schmuck waiting for a bus in Kansas. The pathetic husband in North Dakota.

Maybe the amulet is right. _Maybe none of us should trust Sam’s cure._

He opened his eyes and realized that he was no longer looking at pitch black. A blueish haze had invaded the tunnel, and it was getting stronger. He gasped, feeling suddenly exposed, right in front of the barrier like some zoo animal. He retreated to the curve in the tunnel, flattening his back against the wall and letting out a shaky breath before peering cautiously back into the void.

The colorful haze was closer now. He saw that it was coming from a swarm of blue lights, like the ones that struck at him as he’d first entered the cave. When he’d still been on the sunrise side of the world. The lights wove together and apart, like sparks from a campfire, like a tangle of fireflies, and were steadily approaching the barrier. They stopped at its edge and began shifting and whirling a few feet from the floor, forming temporary shapes with their chaotic formations. An ear? A leg? The hump of a back?

As he watched, the swarm briefly merged into a head-like shape, and he could see an open mouth and a row of sharp teeth, canines exposed. The head seemed to bow and shift until the teeth disappeared and a round forehead and two ears took their place before the swarm butted its makeshift skull into the barrier. It made no sound, collapsing into chaos again.

Dean shook his head. He was completely screwed. _No door. I got two windows, some nutjob’s idea of cave art, and a bunch of tinkerbell lights._ The Mark gave a stuttering throb, and he remembered the growl he’d heard through the fissure. And a cranky neighbor. His hands clenched into fists again as he snapped back at the Mark. “Well, what do you want me to do about it?”

Dumb question. He knew what it wanted him to do. Even as the amulet began to buzz and hum out a warning, he could feel the Mark’s howl of rage and destruction rising in his chest.


	9. Chapter 9

_Something to throw, something to punch, something to kill—_

Dean paced back and forth in the cave, past the mural to the fire pit and back again, feeling more than ever like a caged animal. The blue haze still flickered dully through the dark entrance while the waving, silent grass mocked him on the other side of the window exit.

_Something to throw, something to punch, something to kill—_

The amulet rocked in reproach against the onslaught. Dean kicked at the debris on the floor, feeling like screaming out a tantrum worthy of a two year old Sam.

_Something to throw, something to PUNCH, something to kill—_

He stopped by the slab piled with scraps and sticks and with a yell, swept his arm across the surface, hurling the abandoned objects towards the sigils. The Mark stuttered out a pulse as if amused at his childishness. He growled back at it.

_Something to throw, something to punch--_ He’d reached the mural of sigils again. He stopped and stared at the floor just in front of the drawings.

The fresh detritus he’d just thrown lay scattered among the pebbles and metal on the floor, but they were not everywhere. The path from the mural to the exit was completely bare. “What the hell?” Though the Mark still beat against the cord, he felt some of his anger draining as he gazed at the path. He crouched, ran his fingertips along its edge. It just felt like a rock floor. A very clean rock floor free of pebbles or the smallest speck of grit.

He scooped up a little handful of pebbles and bits of wood and tossed them, more gently this time, towards the center of the path. Instead of landing on the rock and clattering into a random pattern like normal pebbles would do, they bounced out of his target zone, landing on either side of the path.

“That’s weird. Not the weirdest thing to happen today by a long shot, but—“ He waved his palm through the air above the path. Nothing. Dean bent his head and sighted along the path’s straight line towards the exit. It cut the window into two perfect halves, but seemed to disappear on the other side. He turned his head towards the mural and noticed an arched line of black that touched the path’s edges on either side. This close to the ground the arch and the slightly dipped path seemed to complete an oblong circle, like an eye. He felt a half grin pushing at his lips. “I’ll be damned.” The Marked pulsed once in agreement.

From this vantage point he could make out other, smaller, paths radiating out from the mural, though none were as clear as this one. He couldn’t tell if they joined with the cave walls from where he crouched, but two did mark off the tunnel entrance and one seemed to cross just to the south of the table slab. He tried to remember if he’d noticed anything, felt anything, in those spots when he’d rushed into this cell. He didn’t think so.

But then, the best traps didn’t give themselves away, did they?

He stood up and approached the mural again. The thing was like a crazy quilt of black and red, with sigils that turned into faces and back into lines, one into the next in a tangled web, a never-ending loop. Dean touched one of the thick black lines, rubbing his thumb over it. It did not smudge. Not all of the sigils made sense, and some were upside down or backwards versions of wardings he’d learned over the years. He recognized a few of them, though. A sigil of protection here, one of concealment below it. Was it possible that the key had been left in his cell? Or could he break the lock? Which sigils to break?

_All-all-all—_ the Mark insisted. Sure, why not? The amulet’s cord moved against the Mark’s pulse, but the little face was silent. Still, it was holding strong. Dean turned away from the mural and strode over to the fire pit. He inspected the half burned sticks and bits of charcoal, finding two that he thought would hold together for a while. He gathered them up, blackening his palms again, and returned to the mural.

A charcoal stick in each hand, Dean hesitated before the sigils. It was beautiful, in its way. He wished he could take a picture and show it to Sam. _Show it to Sam—_ he almost slapped his forehead before he remembered the charcoal. His phone. He hadn’t checked his phone. Tucking the sticks under his arm, he dug it out of his inner jacket pocket, and pressed the power button.

“C’mon, c’mon, you perfect piece of technology, work!” Nothing appeared on the screen except a dim notification bar. No signal. Then the screen went blank. _Something to throw—_

The phone made a satisfying crash against the wall behind the table slab. He took a breath to steady himself, and returned to the task at hand. He could hear his brother’s voice in his head, now, asking _How do you even start to destroy something like this?_

“Just frickin start,” he growled back at himself.

He leaned over and swept a line across the half circle over the path, glancing back at the window as he did. Nothing new to see. Alright—

He turned back and located the first sigil above the arch and crossed it out, too. The mural gave off no hint of being broken, and no sudden breeze leapt through the window. He kept going.

A stick in each hand again, he moved quickly over the lines, swiping first with his left, then his right hand, defacing every protection line, moving faster and faster, higher overhead, as the Mark beat against his forearm in glee. _Something to punch—_

He was sweating from the exertion, and barely paused when the stick in his left hand ground down to bare wood, just dropping it while continuing on with his marked arm, higher and higher.

The remaining stick suddenly broke in half, and the weight of his slashing arm pushed his hand forward, scraping his knuckle against the rock. “Shit!” He put the injured finger in his mouth, his heart—No, the Mark—pounding in his ears. As the drumming subsided he turned to look at the window. The grasses were still waving silently on the other side. He felt his shoulders slump, but walked over to it anyway, wiping his brow clear of sweat as he moved. He reached out towards the barrier with his scraped hand and felt the smooth surface at his fingertips.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The amulet rocked out a couple of notes, _Safe—safe—_

He sighed. “I’m not done yet,” he told it. “Just gotta keep it together.”

Finger still on the barrier, he looked back at the mess he’d made of the mural. He didn’t think he’d missed any symbols. He pushed against the barrier as if trying to push open a closed door, then turned his whole body back towards the window. He’d felt it give.

Just a little. He pushed harder with both hands, succeeding in pressing his palms forward an inch or two. Looking down at the path between his feet, he now saw a few white-ish sparks moving along it. Was that a good sign? Maybe his graffiti had done something after all. Maybe he just needed to make it more permanent.

He scuffed his feet through the debris as he walked back to the cave wall. He just needed something that would actually cut the lines, something sharp. _(Something to kill--)_ Metal, bone, rock—but the metal bits all seemed too small. He picked up a broken piece of bone that might work in a pinch. As he came back up from grabbing it, though, a glint of something near the table shimmered in the corner of his eye. He moved closer.

Half hidden in the shadows behind the table he saw a small pile of rocks which seemed to have drifted up against the slab. The top layer was shards of sandstone and river rocks, but beneath them he could see something glimmering at him. He shoved aside the round stones and the brittle, soft slivers of sandstone and shale and dug under them, unearthing tantalizingly sharp pebbles of black rock. “Obsidian?” He searched further, digging until his raw fingers touched something cool and smooth. Gingerly he brushed the grit from the larger black chunk he had found, which shone like glass against the dirt floor and duller stones around it. He whistled and hefted the rock, which fit snugly into his hand. A corner of the thing had been chipped away, leaving a thin edge that he could tell would slice his finger if he wasn’t careful. Nevertheless, he tested it. Sharp.

Good.

The unbroken edge would not cut like a blade, he thought, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable tucked up against his palm, either. He patted at his jacket pockets until he found the bandana that he always carried. _Regular boy scout,_ he told the amulet. _Never know when you might need a field bandage—or a DIY weapon hilt._ The thought put a little smile on his face, which he directed up at the mural as he wrapped the cloth around the smoother rock edge. “Alright. Let’s see how you hold up against this little baby,” he said. Wrapping finished, he stood and approached the tangle of black lines, not stopping this time, drawing his improvised blade across the nearest protection symbols. The obsidian scraped the black line in half, and he stood back for a moment, waiting for the fresh air he was hoping for. Nothing.

“Alright, alright—“

He reached up and cut across another sigil. This time he focused on keeping his breathing calm and his movements methodical, counting in his head to the amulet’s rocking rhythm instead of the Mark’s insistent drum. He swayed with its movements, working his way from one end of the circle to the other, and then down.

The half circle at the bottom was the last line he sliced through. As he leaned down to complete the stroke, he thought he could hear a crackling below his feet. He looked down at the path and saw that it was lined with tiny sparks of white light, and that they were undulating within the path’s grooved edges like sunlight hitting ripples of water. “Wow.”

The other paths had also lit up. The cavern floor looked like a haphazard street map, and for a second he thought of that New England village where Sam had finished his junior year of high school. They’d laughed about the winding streets that all led to the town green, or as Dean had teased Sam, to the corner of the green where a cute little girl named April Morgan lived. He chuckled to himself, picturing Sam’s annoyed frown. _Hope this path leads out of here. I’m trying, Sammy. Trying to get back to the green._ He followed the glittering lights back, once more, to the window. Could he hear a little rustle now? He thought he could. The Mark drummed and scuffed against the cord, but he tucked the chunk of rock, blade side down, into his pocket and tentatively pushed against the barrier with his left hand.

He felt it give like the side of a balloon and held his breath as he leaned into it, his hand becoming a fist. Five inches, six, maybe eight—

And then it stopped. _No, no, no, no—_ he could feel the words bubbling up in his throat, but he pushed them down, growling to himself instead. He saw the white lights as they splashed against his feet and around him up to the window, and then rushed back towards the sigils. He took another breath, focused on the wave of sparks, and pushed again when the next splash came up to his boot heels. One, two—seven, eight, nine, ten inches—

A loud crack from behind startled him and he pulled his hand protectively back. Another sharp cracking shot sounded out, causing him to flinch and turn back to the cave. Some of the cuts that he’d made in the sigils were now glowing. He watched as the entire mural cracked and appeared to crumple in on itself. It was starting to look like a huge piece of paper wadding up on itself. Another crack and another appeared as the lights’ rhythms grew wilder and more chaotic. Dean stepped out of the path, one step towards the entrance tunnel.

A final crack sent jagged bits of the mural crashing to the floor. The amulet chimed once, twice, as if in sorrow. The lights winked out.

Into the sudden silence another noise intruded, but it was not the rustle of a gentle breeze. From the tunnel across the cave came the huffing snort of his crabby neighbor. The dim shaft of sunlight that reached into that far corner began to turn blue. The swarm of sparks was somehow making its way into the cave.

The lights filled the tunnel mouth completely before moving into the cave and across one of the tunnel’s floor paths. Dean stood transfixed, part of his brain screaming at him to run, make a break for it, while the rest looked on in disbelief. The swarm gathered itself into thick legs, a hulking back, a broad head with rounded ears and a snout above an open mouth full of teeth. As it approached, passing through a sunbeam, the shape solidified, sparks becoming fur, eyes, claws and teeth.

“Hey—uh—no hard feelings, huh? Sorry if I woke you up back there.” He cursed himself for babbling at it even as he put his hand back in his pocket and grasped the rock, his only weapon.

It was a bear. A frickin ten-foot tall bear, with _blue eyes, its eyes are blue_ , and it let out challenging growl as it headed straight at him.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean drew his makeshift knife back out of his pocket and nestled it into the palm of his hand as the bear lumbered across the cave floor. He could feel the cold obsidian underneath the now gritty handkerchief and hoped its edge was still sharp. The bear snuffled and stopped, gazing in his direction, its massive head with the brindled brown snout nodding from side to side as if confused by this interloper to its domain. 

“Hey there, Gentle Ben. Just trying to get out of here--don’t eat me for that--” For a quick insane moment, he imagined the Mark trying to regenerate him, its host, from bloody bits splashed on the stone walls, and he fought back a crazed, humorless laugh that rose in his throat like bile. The hunter and the predator regarded each other through the gloom. 

The Mark’s throb had become insistent--Something to KILL--but another part of him was also screaming through the adrenaline, pleading for calm, in a voice that sounded first like Sam, then Bobby, then, sharp and insistent, like his father. “Gotta pick your battles, son.” 

“As if two back seat drivers wasn’t enough,” he mumbled to himself. The bear cocked its head at him as he took in a deep breath and tried to push down both the homicidal-suicidal beat in his arm and the panic in his chest. 

OK--what had Bobby taught them about predators when he tried to take them hunting all those years ago? Stay calm--back away slowly--for God’s sake, don’t turn tail and take off running like a scared deer--

“Ya idjit--” The bear huffed and lowered its head, looking for all the world like he’d understood the insult. “Not you--” he told it. “Me. I was talking to myself, here.” 

It took an indecisive couple of steps towards the channel of light between them. Dean thought it might be a grizzly--weren’t they the ones with the hunchbacks? He stepped back, hands out in front of him, as it moved forward. Its burly, hunched shoulders came up to his chest. He knew that if it decided to cross the line, he would only be able to back up about fifteen feet until he was cornered. 

The bear had reached the shallow channel that still sparkled with energy, and it dipped its nose to it, then took an unexpected turn towards the wall of destroyed sigils. Dean took another step backwards into the gloom to one side of the cave. 

C’mon, smart guy, he thought. Lay out your options. He could go one of two directions. Back into the corner and hope the bear gets bored. Or try to slip around and make for the tunnel, which he must have opened up during his graffiti rampage. “What if it isn’t?” a small frightened piece of his psyche piped up, making itself heard over the din of the Mark and the amulet’s rocking. “That thing’s mouth is right in line with your gut.” 

“Shut up--all of you.”

The bear was now shuffling side to side, putting weight on one leg or the other as it inspected the line of light between them. Dean slid over to the cave wall next the window and put his back to the rock. The bear still seemed more intent on the ground. It huffed in his direction, though, when its head swerved his way. He side-stepped slowly towards the window opening. 

One step--two--

He reached the window. The bear had shuffled a little closer to that channel, but didn’t seem too perturbed by his movement. Yet. 

Another step, and then one more, and he found himself straddling the line of light, dead center of the arched window. His shadow fell over the bear’s snout, and it looked up at him. It grunted out a warning. Dean froze, adjusted the chunk of obsidian in his palm. “Nothing to see here,” he told it. “Just a boring old--kinda--human. How about them twinkle lights, huh?” But the bear was no longer interested in the sparks. It turned fully towards him, its weaving balance from foot to foot becoming more pronounced as it stared at him. 

“Hey, now--we’re friends here, ain’t we?” He raised his hands out towards the creature, empty palm out--like I’m getting ready to stop traffic--The obsidian weighed heavy in his hand, grew warmer. The bear’s attention gravitated towards the rock and it stepped towards Dean, lowering its head. 

“Hey.” The bear snorted. 

“Hey!” he clapped his free hand against the Mark on his forearm, sharply, once, as the retort echoed through the cave. “Get back!” Dean yelled. 

It shook its head and pushed off, charging towards him. Dean yelled at it again, crossing his arms in front of his face, and then dove sideways away from the window, towards the tunnel entrance. 

Not fast enough. The bear was on him, knocking him back into the barrier. He slashed at its nose with the obsidian chunk and it snorted, once, turning its head away, then let out a sharp, deep throated roar and came back, its jaws way too close to his face. 

Dean slashed at it again, cutting it across its jowl and drawing blood as his right arm crossed protectively in front of his neck. The bear took advantage of his exposed forearm, seizing it in its teeth and rushing forward into the barrier. Dean yelled in pain. 

The yell turned into a scream as the bear flung him and itself into the barrier. Dean dimly saw a flash of red lights mingling with blue streaks of lightning above him as he was dragged across the cave threshold. For a split second he was nowhere, then he heard, over the bear’s grunts, a crystalline shattering. He was aware of hot light all around them, so bright it hurt, as the red and blue sparks above his head seemed to shoot like bullets through the white explosion. He thought the red was coming from his forearm, still in the bear’s jaws. 

And then they were outside, and Dean felt the back of his head connect with hard earth as the bear huffed and wheezed, dropping him at its massive feet. His legs were still partially under the animal, which had stopped moving. He lay stunned for a moment until the Mark and the amulet chimed together in his head, agreeing for once--Move, Move, Move--

He lifted his upper body, kicked at the ground beneath the bear, scrambling backwards on his rear. His back protested dully--bruised a rib, probably--while his forearm burned with pain and the Mark throbbed angrily through the aching fire. As soon as he was out from underneath the bear, he turned onto his hands and knees, crawling several more feet away before flopping on his belly. He spread his legs out behind himself like Bobby had taught them and covered his neck with his hands. Blood trickled from his arm, dribbling down the side of his neck and under his collar. He waited for the bear’s grunts to resume, for its rank breath on his back or calves, but nothing moved behind him. 

Dean chanced a look over his shoulder. It stood, as if rooted to the ground, its upper body weaving a bit as it shook its head from side to side like it was trying to get rid of a fly. Another drop of blood plopped onto the ground next to his face as he watched the bear. Any bright ideas? He asked the amulet. It was silent and still. --That’s what I thought. Feel better if I had that chunk of rock, anyway. 

He looked around for the obsidian or his handkerchief and hoped they hadn’t been left behind in the cave. As the seconds passed, and the bear shook its head or pawed at its wounded jaw, he searched, trying not to move too much. Finally he saw the rock, still partly wrapped in the cloth, a yard behind him on his right side. 

Heart pounding, arm and back throbbing, he rose up on his hands and knees again and cautiously reached back for his weapon. He eyed the bear over his shoulder as he moved. It was still dazed, he thought, but was shifting around more now. Dean didn’t think he had much more time before it brought its attention back to him. Finally his fingers touched the polished edge. He glanced down at his hand closing around the rock, as a shadow fell over it. 

The cat had rousted itself and was slinking past him towards the bear. It did not look at him as it passed, its tail twitching like an annoyed housecat. Dean let it go by, holding his breath, then grasped the rock and began to stand up. He turned his head to watch the cat, keeping his back to the bear in case he had to play dead again. 

The cat let out a low pitched hiss, which caught the bear’s attention at last. In response it huffed at the other animal. The cat crouched low to the ground, ears back, intent on the bear and growling deep in its throat. 

“Oookaay--” Dean whispered. “You two don’t get along--” He took a tentative step away from the animals as he watched their standoff over his shoulder. The air was heavy with anticipation, but a breeze prickled the already upright fur on their necks and touched the back of his aching head gently. Another step away, as the Mark pulsed. Two steps, and the amulet sang--small--favors--

The bear broke the stalemate with a burst of speed that reminded Dean of a linebacker, charging the cat as it huffed and growled its peculiar moaning bark. The cat leapt from its defensive stance and met its attacker in mid-air. He felt his shoulders jerk in response, a shot of adrenaline beating through him, a warning to get ready—for what?--rocking in time from the amulet. 

“Goddamn it,” he growled. The Mark echoed, Something to--

Shut it, he thought. The animals tumbled together across the grass, ignoring him for the moment. Go! The scared little voice called at him from deep in his head, and he obeyed it, breaking into a sprint away from the fight. “Sorry, Bobby,” he wheezed as he ran, “Breaking the rules again, huh?” He cradled his wounded arm, his right hand gripping the rock, and he ran as fast as he could manage towards the dark line of trees in the distance. 

He only glanced back once, half a football field’s length from the noisy skirmish. He could not see the cave entrance. There was no Tower behind him. Dean couldn’t see the cat or the bear, only a billowing cloud of dust intermingled with brightly flashing gold and blue sparks.


	11. Chapter 11

Nothing was following him. No twinkle lights, no bear, nothing. Unless the cat was taking cover in the tall yellow clumps of grass that clung to the red clay under his feet. Dean slowed to a walk as he looked back over his shoulder, scanning the flat prairie behind him. He couldn’t see any sign of movement.

_Not like it’d be hard for the animals to track me if they wanted to_ , he thought, feeling his injured arm gingerly. _I’m leaving an awesome blood trail for ‘em._ He looked down at the red staining his coat sleeve and filling his left hand. His right arm was throbbing, the Mark answering the pain in syncopation, half a beat off.

_Deal with that. Now._ His father said in his head.

“Yessir.”

Dean dropped the obsidian onto the ground and knelt down in the grass beside it. He wiped his left hand on his jeans, cleaning off most of the blood, and began to work his way out of his jacket, relieved to discover that, in spite of the pain, the fingers on his right hand mostly obeyed him, however clumsily. Both hands were trembling, though, as the adrenaline that had fueled his escape from the cave wore off.

His jacket was torn and dirty, of course. He hoped he didn’t look as bad as it did. The amulet rocked once, as if gently mocking that thought. He thought he heard it echo, _yes sir—_

“I know—I know—“ he grumbled back at it.

Once his jacket was on the ground next to the obsidian, he inspected his flannel shirt. It was soaked with his blood, some of which was just starting to stiffen the fabric, and it was punctured, too. He took a deep breath, flexing the fingers of his right hand, testing and pushing mentally against the resulting throb in his arm. His hand closed up almost by its own will into a fist. He let his breath go, and began to unbutton the cuff and then to pull the sleeve up over his forearm, hissing as the Mark and the wounds around it were exposed to the air.

The bear’s teeth had gotten him in four places that he could see, above the Mark and below it. The wounds gaped wide and he could see the layers of skin and the beginnings of his muscles underneath. _Like tiny mouths threatening to spit their meat out. Shit._ Here and there, strands of fabric from his shirt had embedded into them. He picked at the cloth in the wounds, pulling out the bits he could see, but he knew he would need to flush them. One puncture had grazed the edge of the Mark itself and this one had begun to scab over already. The other three were swollen and still oozing sluggish blood. “Goddamn it—“

He needed water and a bandage. The water would have to wait, but the wrapping couldn’t, unless he wanted to just lay down here and bleed, while the cat and the bear finished their wrestling match and decided to come find him to play with instead. He’d used his handkerchief on his improvised weapon, and it was now gritty with dust and sweat. He could tear a strip from his flannel shirt, maybe, though he wasn’t sure that the obsidian was still sharp enough for cutting heavy cloth. _If I’d kept my boot sheath on, I wouldn’t be in this fix—_ he thought. _Would’ve worn it, too, except for Sam giving me the scared puppy face._ The amulet rocked, poking him with its horn. “Fine—except that I wanted to make this trip unarmed, just for him. Happy?”

Dean covered the worst _—mouth—_ hole with his flannel cuff and clapped his left hand firmly over it, applying pressure as he gazed out over the top of the tall grass in front of him, thinking. All he could hear was the rustle of the breeze across the prairie, and the chirp of some unknown bird or bug somewhere nearby. _Where the hell am I?_ It didn’t look like the area around the Tower, except for the red clay earth. _And how the hell am I supposed to get back?_

Through the cave, sure—if it was still there and was not being guarded by an angry bear or a cat who seemed to think he should stay put. He’d been stupid enough to blindly follow that damn cat into that cell, and even if he made his way back to the cave, he wasn’t sure he would be able to find the fissure where he and the creature had entered the Tower again. “Assuming it’s a place I can even reach right now.”

Back was not the way, then, almost never was, in fact. Better to push through whatever was in front of you. So—forward. To the trees up ahead, which he guessed might be a mile or two away. Bobby had taught them that, out on the plains at least, trees meant water. He hoped it’d be nice clean running water that he could use to rinse these aching wounds and then drink his fill.

First, though, a bandage. If his flannel was out, that left his t-shirt. Dean raised the collar of the black cotton shirt to his nose and took a cautious sniff, recoiling as the smell of sweaty, dank cloth hit him.

_Idjit_ , Bobby seemed to say fondly in his ear. The Mark pulsed again. “Hey, you don’t get to mock Bobby,” he told it.

Even with the sweat, the shirt was the cleanest thing he had, so it’d have to do. He worked his arms out of his flannel shirt as carefully as he could, leaving the shortsleeved top. He stopped and considered whether pulling it straight off over his head was the best option. The bird-bug chirped again, and he raised up from his crouch and poked his head up over the grass tops. It was quiet and still out there. He sighed. “Here goes nothin’.”

If he got back to Sam, one thing he was going to leave out of this little story was just how hard it was to get out of that damn t-shirt without jarring his right arm. Finally, after a couple minutes of contortions and cursing, he managed to work it off. At least the sleeve slide easily over the amulet and his wounded forearm onto the ground.

The breeze, so welcome after he’d escaped the cave and the bear, now sent a shiver across his body as it hit the half-dried sweat on his torso. Dean grabbed his flannel and managed to get it on, his clumsy right hand trembling with the effort of holding the fabric so that he could fasten a couple of buttons. He bent his elbow and raised his arm up above his heart to slow the bleeding, inspecting his forearm once more. His exertions hadn’t helped anything there at all, had aggravated things it seemed. The deepest wound was still dripping down his arm and onto his pantleg. The other punctures were surrounded by swollen, tender skin, but scabs seemed to be starting to close over them.

Dean picked up his t-shirt and stared at it. _Gonna have to tear it up, I guess._ The obsidian might still be sharp enough for this job, anyway. Dropping the shirt in his lap, he grabbed the rock chunk and wedged it, sharp side up, between his knees. Then he found the bottom seam of the shirt and held it as tightly stretched as he could manage, bringing the cloth down over the corner of the rock and tugging it across. One pull—nothing tore. His second just stretched out the material, and he almost threw the shirt to the wind in frustration. But he took another breath, reset his grip on the cloth by twisting a bit of it around the palm of his clumsy hand, and brought it down a third time. He felt it give, heard a gorgeous ripping sound. “Ha! Yes!”

Once he’d started the tear, he found it was easy to rip the shirt from the bottom up to the collar. He pulled the halves apart, measured out the width for a strip of bandage, and repeated the process. When his right arm began throbbing in time to his efforts, he rested his forearm up on his chest and took the t-shirt strip in his teeth, keeping up the pace until the shirt lay in black jagged ruins in his lap, the collar and sleeve pieces forgotten and trailing threads by his knee.

Wrapping his forearm was easier, but not by much. He started by this elbow, pulling the cloth all the way around just above the worst of the teeth marks, bracing his arm against his stomach to keep the bandage tight. When he got close to the end of a strip, he tucked the tail bit underneath the growing bandage and started over fresh. The Mark disappeared under the black cloth but did not stop its rhythmic beat. If anything he felt it pick up the tempo as if in protest. “Suck it up,” he told it through a grimace.

The strips made it down his arm and halfway back up to his elbow before he ran out. He finished his bandage with a simple over and under knot, pulling the loose side tight with his teeth. _Not my best field work_ , he thought, inspecting his covered arm, _but at least it’ll keep me from bleeding all over myself for a while._

He pulled himself up, popping his head over the top of the grass again, but could see nothing. He realized that the bird-bug had gone silent, too—not a good sign, but he’d been lucky so far, so things were probably due to change any minute. He was not so lucky with the standing, though, as a wave of dizziness hit him as he uncurled from his crouch. He nearly landed back on his ass before he was able to shake it off. When he was reasonably sure that he wasn’t going to entertain the bird-bug by taking a graceless back flop into the grass, he reached down for his jacket with his left hand, intending to pull it on over the bad arm. Something in his jacket pocket bumped up against his leg as he lifted it, and he stopped cold. What the hell was that?

Dean felt the object through the fabric. It was a bit oblong, hard in some places and a little squishy in others. He groaned, suddenly remembering, and reached in to pull out the apple that Sam had tossed him that morning. The thing was not in the best shape—its streaky red and yellow skin was massively bruised on one side. _Bet my back looks just like that about now._ But the skin hadn’t split, somehow, and the fruit underneath was not completely pulped. It actually looked almost semi-edible. He bounced it once in his palm and grinned, pulling on his jacket and then reaching down for the obsidian which his clumsy hand was able to grasp long enough for him to straighten upright and drop it into his left pocket.

His stomach gurgled and his mouth watered as he contemplated the fruit in his hand. He tossed the apple up once more, caught it in his left palm. “Never thought I’d be so damn glad to see a mushy apple.”

The amulet chimed and he nodded at it. “Thanks, Sammy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope you follow me to the river and just a little bit further. And I would love to know what you think! Have I gone off the rails? Does anyone want to know what might happen next? Thank you for taking the time to read this!


	12. Chapter 12

“Two miles—my ass—I’m so screwed—“Dean wiped at his forehead with the back of his left hand. His right arm remained cradled against his stomach. The apple was long gone, its core and the pulpy bits that he couldn’t force himself to eat thrown away to the bird-bugs about an hour ago. The trees were closer, he thought, though still a ways off. He could see their top branches wavering in the breeze now.

Stopping was not an option. He kept his feet moving to the rhythmic pulse of the Mark, or to the beat of the puncture wounds against the cloth wrappings. He even felt his body sway to the amulet’s rocking now and then. One foot forward, next foot down, over and over. It didn’t seem to matter which rhythm he was following at any given time. _Just so long as I keep stomping._

The light in the sky was harsh and unchanging, as if the sun were directly overhead and behind him as he walked. When he looked up at it, all he saw was a bright gold light that seemed to spread out from more than one location in the deep blue backdrop of sky. Awesome, he thought. “Hey, did you guys put me in some kinda movie set?” He asked, not caring if the cat or deer was there to answer. “Like that Jim Carrey movie? Am I gonna reach the trees and then bump my head on the edge of the world?”

He didn’t think he would, but the thought both amused and scared him. Of course, in the movie, Truman reached the end of his world and found a door, right? He doubted he’d get so lucky. One foot, then then next, just to see what lay beyond the edge of his vision.

Long before he saw it, he heard the gurgling splash of moving water that the trees stood guard over, and his hopes rose as the pounding in his arm seemed to lessen under the influence of this new sound. He was close now, only a half a mile away, and his steps quickened as he approached until he was almost jogging. Bobby was right—trees meant water.

The creek was fast and clear, and its bank, anchored by cottonwood trees, was an undercut mess of roots and hard clay. Still, he whooped aloud when he saw it, sliding down the embankment into the shade, and not stopping at the water’s edge but plunging into it up to his knees. It was icy and the air above it like the cool breeze that hits your face when you open the fridge, _but damn, it feels good!_ He scooped some up with his left hand and splashed it over his bent head, wiping his face, hair and neck, reveling in the feeling of the dried blood that clung to his skin mixing with the grit of the cave and the hike and sluicing away down into the creek. Somewhere in his head, a memory of Bobby was grumbling at him to get out of the water before he ruined his boots and blistered his feet, but he ignored his old friend, for the moment feeling younger than he had any right to as he splashed and slurped up palm fulls of blissfully cold water and let the excess dribble down his chin.

“Dean—you forgot the story!” Another memory had replaced Bobby standing on a long-ago riverbank grousing at them. Sam—he must have been, what, ten?—sitting on a crappy hotel couch with a book in his lap and all but wagging his finger at Dean. “Never—ever—break bread with people you meet on a fairy road! Never accept a drink! That’s how they get you to stay—“

Stunned, Dean opened his cupped hand and let his next mouthful of water fall back into the river instead of down his throat. “What the hell, Sam?” He asked the little boy of his past. “This for sure ain’t no road, and I haven’t met any fairies—“

The amulet rocked in silent laughter, and he clapped a wet hand over it. In his mind’s eye, little Sam shook his head in exasperation. “So where are you, then?” 

“Wish I knew,” he mumbled.

“Not Oz, anyway—ain’t seen any damn flying monkeys. Yet.” Said the Bobby on another riverbank.

Chastened and suddenly chilled, Dean looked around for a place to pull himself out of the water as Bobby and little Sam faded back into his memory. He spotted an outcropping of rocks jutting into the creek just downstream and made his way toward them. The current pushed him along eagerly, and he became aware of just how numb his toes were as he tried to keep his balance over the pebbled streambed.

One of the boulders had a flatter surface that was only half-submerged, making it pretty easy to scramble up, clumsy right hand and all. Once there, Dean pulled his legs up out of the water, grimacing as his sopping wet jeans and boots hit the cool rock. The branches overhead shifted and swayed in the breeze above the bank, allowing the sun to reach him only in dappled spots of light. He sighed and turned his attention to the black bandage on his arm. The spot over the worst puncture was damp, not entirely from his plunge into the water. He touched it gingerly and cursed at the red smear that came off on his fingers.

He remembered little Sammy’s wagging fingers, and he could picture the glare his brother would be giving him if he could see his arm right now. “I know—I know—“

He began to unwrap the bandage, taking painstaking care as he exposed the wounds and the Mark to the frigid air above the water. The deepest of them, still throbbed in time to the Mark’s beat, were still only half covered by shiny scabbing, the skin around them swollen and puckered as they seeped more blood than he would have liked. The smaller two, though—they had closed over. It even looked like some of the skin around them had begun to heal. He brought his arm up closer to his face to examine them. _I’ll be damned._ The Mark throbbed in agreement, and he saw that there were thin blood-red streaks pulsing from the brand to the wounds as it did.

“No one asked you to do that!” he growled at it as he pushed himself over onto his belly and plunged his forearm into the creek, scrubbing at the wounds with his good hand until they opened to the cleansing water. He knew he wasn’t going to get all of the grit out of the punctures, or whatever gifts the bear’s teeth had deposited in there, but he relished the numbing chill, and for a brief moment even felt like he’d taken charge of the situation.

As he watched his own blood swirl away on the current, he felt little Sam’s disapproval niggling once more in the back of his mind. Dean did his best to tamp it down—he knew the rules about eating and drinking in a strange place without the security of striking a bargain first, about giving something away too easily-—knew that these rules applied to his own world as much as they did to Fairyland. Or whatever this weird no-place actually was. He just couldn’t find it in himself to care.

_Maybe I should just hang here for a while. Maybe the cat has a point—_

He also knew that Sam would be safer if he just stayed by this creek. Safer without his time-bomb brother driving him to who knows where or what, careening towards another explosion—

Dean felt groggy and dazed by the swirling colors, the burbling sound, and the glints of light that hit the water here and there as the branches above shifted in the breeze. _Wanna go deeper_ , he thought. The amulet rocked back and forth— _deep-er_. He obeyed, pulling his forearm out of the water long enough to shed his jacket and pull his flannel sleeve further up his arm. The amulet on its black tether slipped out of the fabric and dangled just below the sleeve edge above the crook of his elbow. Small rivulets of blood followed the water droplets that ran down his arm and hand, but the Mark was peaceful now, numb and silent. He found he wanted to keep it that way.

He plunged his arm back into the water, this time up above his elbow, and watched the water carry away the blood—and his anger—and bad memories—and fear for Sam—caught up in the swirling patterns, he dipped his arm lower into the water until he felt the amulet face lift up and away from his arm as the current tugged on it.

And then he saw— _Sam’s face?_ —not in his mind’s eye, but in the water. His little brother, as he’d looked this morning with his mop of hair over a too-gaunt face, was examining something, his brow furrowed into his “trying not to panic” expression, and Dean was looking right at him, like he was a closeup photo come to life. Sam’s hand came up into the frame along with the edge of a flashlight beam as he ran the light across whatever it was he was so interested in. “What’re ya lookin’ at, Sammy?” Dean’s speech sounded slurred and slow to his ears. He tilted his head and Sam faded back into the water. Soon though, another image appeared, of Sam’s hand holding the light, training it on some markings on a rock wall.

“Seen those—before—” Dean grunted, bringing his nose closer to the water’s surface in an unconscious effort to see the images more clearly. Though the ripples on the water pulled the lines in and out of focus, he thought he saw a group of sigils, forming a perfect circle, about two feet across in the middle of the cave wall. 

_The cave wall—no, not the cave—too small, too not-destroyed—_

_The fissure?_

_Sam was in the fissure?_

Damn the kid for not staying on the god-damn path! Dean’s anger shot from his heart in a direct line down his arm, right past the amulet cord to the Mark, and he jerked his arm out of the water. The images of Sam and the cave wall flashed and joined with a ray of dappled sunlight on the water’s surface and then were gone. He lay back on the boulder, panting, trying to get his racing heart back under control.

“Okay—Sam—okay. Not gonna wash away my sins here, I guess. I won’t stay here—”

His arm began to ache and throb as it warmed and dried in the air. Finally he couldn’t stand it anymore, and he sat up. He gathered the discarded bandages back onto his lap and, after rubbing his skin with the edge of his flannel to finish drying his arm, he began re-wrapping his wounds. The job went smoother this time, even though he was careful to choose the cleaner scraps of cloth for his inside layer. Finished, he stood on his flat boulder, sighing as he slid back into the icy water, and began picking his way to the bank. The creek tumbled on around him, entreating him to go for another dip, but he swallowed hard and kept his gaze on the bank. “Don’t drink the water. You got it, Sam.”

He scrambled up the bank, clumsily grabbing at the tree roots to steady himself. He hated that the strength that seemed to be seeping back into his arm was coming from the Mark, but he also had to admit, it felt pretty damn good to feel his fingers starting to obey his commands again.

He sat down in the dirt against the trunk of a cottonwood, his jacket beside him and his sleeves still rolled up past his elbow, wet jeans and socks clinging uncomfortably to his legs and his toes squishing fitfully in his waterlogged boots. Goosebumps rose and fell on his arms as the wind made its own swirling pattern in the grass in front of him. The creek still seemed loud in his ears—in spite of his resolve, he found himself wishing he was back in it, washing himself away, floating away—

“Don’t drink the water—” he told himself, knocking the back of his head gently on the tree trunk and wincing as the knot on the back of his head made itself known again. “Don’t drink the water—”

So engrossed was he in resisting the water’s siren song and the amulet’s cajoling chimes to forget himself at the river’s edge, that he didn’t hear the sudden rustling in the tree above him, even though it was too loud and long a sound to be caused by the breeze. He startled and sprang away from the trunk, though, when a piece of bark fell out of the canopy and hit his shoulder. “Son of a bitch! Who’s up there?”

He got to his feet and scanned the tree branches warily, backing away from the trunk and toward the prairie’s edge, stopping when his boot heel hit a large tuft of grass. Not good, not good—the Mark fluttered against the cord. Another faint rustle shook the lowest of the scrubby branches just over his head, and he zeroed in on it. “Show yourself!” he growled. Nothing answered, but he caught a glimpse of something small and light brown perched on the branch. _The cat?_

He’d left his jacket with the obsidian chunk at the base of the tree, and he worked out his odds for being able to dive back into the shade and grab it before the cat got the drop on him. _If that’s what it’s gonna do._ He liked his chances better out here in the open, even without a weapon and anyway, he thought, the cat had not physically hurt him—yet—had even protected him against the bear. Maybe he could talk to it, strike a bargain with it to give up the whole _you’re-safer-in-a-cell_ idea and send him back to the Tower.

Dean untangled his foot and paced a few steps back and forth, gazing up into the leaves as he did, trying to get a clearer view. The thing in the trees moved, too, shifting lower on the branch and seeming to curl up on itself in the shadows, becoming a small lump that his mind couldn’t quite interpret. It was trying to hide from him, he thought.

He raised his arms waist-high, palms facing out in what he hoped was a peace-making gesture. “Hey—“ he said more calmly. “I'm not gonna hurt you. Honestly, I don’t think I could if I tried.” He paced back to the left, keeping his eye on the little lump of tan, black and brown on the branch. “Word of honor.”

The figure moved, and he could see a small head pull up from its crouch in the tree. A pair of eyes glinted in dappled shade. They were not icy blue, he saw with a jolt of surprise. These eyes were a deep brown, almond-shaped, almost imperceptible among the shadows if not for the figure’s paler face shifting into the sunlight as it regarded him. It spoke to him, words he didn’t understand, its high soft voice quavering in fear or excitement, and he felt a second jolt course through him.

_Definitely not an it,_ he realized, _and not a cat either._ The form shifted and relaxed on the branch, speaking again, and his brain finally understood what he was seeing.

Dean was staring up into the face of a young girl.


	13. Chapter 13

The girl leaned down from her perch in the tree and gazed at Dean expectantly. She wasn’t very old, he thought, maybe eleven or twelve at the most. She spoke again, and he could only shake his head at her. He shrugged, exaggerating the movement by pulling his shoulders up to his jaw line with his palms still out. He thought he caught a swift smile on her face and hoped she understood that he couldn’t speak in her language. “No offense,” he said.

She smiled at him again, her amusement flashing across her face as swiftly as one of Sam’s lightning grins, and slid lower on the branch, all the way to where it met the tree trunk. She was still about three feet over his head. _Close--close-enough--_ the Mark beat out, and he covered it with his good hand and squeezed, willing it to silence.

She leaned back against the trunk, using her legs to steady herself, and he could see she was trying to keep her feet out of his reach by bending her knees tightly against the branch. She leaned over, regarding him, her long black hair spilling across her shoulders and blowing about her face, hiding and revealing caramel-colored skin. She began to gesture at him, the same set of gestures over and over, beginning with a touch of her cheek and ending by pointing at him. Dean stared in confusion until he realized that she was trying to ask him something.

He shook his head again. “I’m sorry. I don’t get it.” She clucked her tongue at him, renewing her gestures, adding in a new set before touching her cheek and pointing again. He let go of his arm and raised his hands up to stop her. “Look,” he pointed towards himself with both hands. “I’m Dean. And this place--” he swept his arms out, indicating their surroundings, and then shaking his head again, “I don’t belong here.”

She’d stopped talking with her hands, was staring at his left palm intently. She said something, pointing at his hand, and he glanced down. His palm was red with blood that had seeped to the top of the black bandage. “Shit.” The little girl repeated her sentence, this time not as a question. Dean nodded. “Yeah. I ran into a bear. Or it ran into me, I guess--”

At her blank stare, Dean shrugged. “A bear. You know--” he hunched his shoulders to his ears and put his left hand in front of his mouth like a snouted jaw. He huff-barked at her, not too loud, and clapped his hand closed, making the jaw snap shut. “A bear.” She laughed then, and he felt a fast burning ember of self-satisfaction. He grinned back up at her.

She was gesturing again, holding her hand at shoulder height and waving it to make an oval shape in the air. She pointed at herself--maybe she was telling him her name? She touched her cheek, switched to a two handed movement in front of her that looked like she was stirring a bowl, and pointed back at him.

“I told you my name.” He pointed at himself again, tapping his chest. “It’s Dean.”

Her hand sliced the air forcefully, like she was tossing something on the ground. _Is that a no?_ She repeated her signs.

He shrugged helplessly, and tapped his chest again, “Dean. Dean----Winchester--”

“Dee-nes-terr?” she repeated. She made the slicing motion again.

“Right. I don’t know what else to tell you, kid.” She pointed to the streambed, and then cupped her hand in front of her mouth, pantomiming a drinking motion before sweeping it away to the right. Her hands danced in front of her face like she was splashing or swimming in the water. He nodded. “I was thirsty.” He unconsciously squished his toes into the waterlogged soles of his boots. “And hot--and stupid.” He tapped at his skull, shook his head. “Not too bright. You saw that, huh?”

She stared, and Dean shifted his weight as the Mark beat impatiently against the cord. “So--Hey, I could use some help. I need to find a way out of here.” Her head tilted. “You don’t know how I could do that, do you?” He considered how he might get his idea across. _Keep it simple, ya idgit_ \--rang through his head, and he grimaced.

Finally he made a finger puppet with his left hand, his index and pointer fingers hanging down for legs. He ran them through the air. “I need an exit.” _How the hell do I get her to see a door?_ he wondered. _Maybe it’d be more like a portal?_ His memory suddenly flooded with the hole in the fabric of Purgatory that had separated him from Cas before spitting him out into nowhere Maine. “Something like this?” He pulled his hands together into clasped fists before opening them out, imitating the opening of the portal by making a circle of his fingers and expanding it outwards. He shifted his finger puppet and had it run through the imaginary portal in the air.

The amulet chimed and he agreed-- _Clear as mud, I know._

But she was grinning at him again. She cocked her head to the other side, gazed like she was forming a conclusion. “OK--I’ll let you think about it,” he said. Dean put his hands up in a placating move and backed away from the tree, two steps out into the never-changing sunshine. He hunched down onto his heels to let her mull over her options and decide if she’d ever seen a hole in the sky. He could feel the deep wounds on his forearm pulsing along with the Mark’s rhythm again, but he forced himself to stay still and wait. Absently, he brushed his left palm across his jeans, trying to wipe off the drying blood. _Don’t stare at her._

He realized with a jolt that his flannel shirt was still hanging half-open-- _Nice first impression_ \--and he set his focus on improving this situation. His right hand fingers were still stiff and clumsy, but he thought the buttons went easier this time, even if it took all of his concentration. He had just managed to fasten the last of them when the tree began to rustle and creak.

He looked up as she scrambled down to a lower branch on the opposite side of the cottonwood and used it to drop to the ground. He could see now that she wore a simple tunic that might have been made of softened leather, with sewn leather shoes in the same dark tan color. He forced himself to stay crouched while she approached him. She stopped at the edge of the shade, just out of arm’s length, and he slowly let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding. 

_Like Sammy in that motel parking lot when he was six, trying to feed a sparrow with the sesame seeds he’d pulled off of his bun and scattered around his shoes._

_  
_

_Shit, Sam, I don’t have a damn thing to give her--why would she help me?_

But he glanced up at her, nodded at her wide-eyed expression, and gave her a little wave, feeling the amulet shift as he moved.

The glint of sun off of the little face seemed to catch her attention, and she started signing again, waving her own hand at shoulder height and staring at the amulet dangling below his cuffed sleeve. He didn’t think she was waving hello, though. “I don’t know, kid--”

She stopped waving, said something, and at his blank stare, made another sign, this time raising her hands to her temples and crooking her fingers upward, like-

_Like horns-_

“Yeah, it has horns--yours are too short, though. More like--” Dean thought for a moment, then held his own hands up to his forehead with his own fingers pointing towards her and a little down, doing a bit of the cartoon bull impression that used to make his brother laugh. It seemed to amuse her, too. Her eyes sparkled even as she made the downward slashing movement that he was now pretty sure meant “no”.

Dean put his hands down, wincing as the bandages shifted over the puncture wounds, and smiled at her. She smiled back, showing dimples, then turned her attention to his arm. She leaned forward, took a step closer, reached out toward the wrappings, and he grimaced, pulling his arm away protectively. Whether he was afraid of her touch, or more afraid for her coming into contact with him, he could not say.

She pulled herself back and stood up, moving back into the shade and several feet away from him. It looked like she was going to follow the line of trees upstream.

“You gotta go--I get that. It’s been fun, not talking to you.”

But she turned and gestured for him to follow.

“Really? To the door?” She stared, and he tried again, making the expanding portal out of his hands as he said, “to the-the door?”

Her hand slashed down, and his hopes sank with it, even though she smiled at him. Her hands made a new sign, going up to her head and smoothing invisible strands of hair down both sides of her face. She followed this by touching her first two fingers to her lips and then up to her cheek.

He sighed. “Not like I have a plan here, kid. Go ahead--I’ll follow you.” He waved his arm in the upstream direction she’d indicated, and she nodded and set off.

Dean stood up and scanned the horizon as he made his way to the tree trunk to retrieve his jacket with its obsidian chunk. He saw no sign of any gold or blue sparks, no brown backs racing through the grass. Good, he thought, but the Mark beat out a cautionary throb. _I know--they’ve had plenty of time to catch up. Let’s take our chances, huh?_ Ahead of him the girl was walking slowly as if waiting for him. He started towards her, nodding with approval when she positioned herself in front and to the side, keeping him more than an arms’ length away and him in her view from the corner of her eye. _Smart girl._

The amulet glinted and rocked in time to his steps and his approval. Behind them, the cottonwoods swayed and the sunlight shivered through the leaves. If Dean and the girl had looked back at the riverbank, they would have seen some of the streaks of light intensifying on a tree about five yards downstream. The girl might have gasped, and Dean would have grabbed for his weapon, if they had seen the streaks turn from silver to gold and pool together into a small swarm that dropped down through the branches to the grass and made their way behind them as they walked.


	14. Chapter 14

Dean and the girl walked not quite side by side along the border between prairie and trees. The girl kept several feet away from him, but always had him in the corner of her eye. Both her hand and her speech fell silent, and he didn't try to break into her thoughts. It was a relief, actually, to have another person physically there beside him again, instead of talking in his head or singing his conscience at him, or worst of all, pounding at his resolve, telling him to give up the pretense that he could live and hunt without letting his killer instincts take over. Having her there, not exactly beside him, but at least willing to help him— _"You think", the Mark pulsed_ —quieted the tumult that had begun to take him over in his solitude.

Still, he kept scanning their surroundings, looking for the sparks, the bear he'd woken up or the creatures with human faces who seemed to want to keep him locked away. Safe. He pulled his sleeves down to his elbows to cover the amulet's face again, but kept his jacket in hand. He felt the weight of the obsidian sway back and forth, as it shifted in the pocket, and was glad for its solidity and heft. None of those damn creatures was going to take him by surprise again. _None of them are gonna get close to her._

He tucked his clumsy arm in its damp bandage against his stomach and kept pace with the girl, careful to stay where she wanted him to be.

"Follow a cat into a cell—follow a girl—to somewhere—I must be losing it—" he grumbled to himself.

"How far are we going?" He asked. When she looked at him, he rolled his left hand around in front of his chest in an encouraging "out with it" gesture. "How far?"

She smiled quickly and shrugged at him, pulling her shoulders up high and stretching her arms wide out at either side. Dean huffed, looking away to hide his embarrassed smile at her imitation of his moves. "That far, huh? OK, Sunshine-" He shot her a glance as she said something short and teasing-sounding. "Hey, I think it's a good name for you—" he said, and raised his own hands to answer her with a pantomime of his own, when he heard a scuffling rustle behind them. They both turned in the direction of the riverbank to see the underbrush beneath the cottonwoods shivering with movement. Something was thrashing around in there.

The girl looked at him, and he indicated that she should go ahead on the path. She started walking again, picking up her pace, and Dean dropped behind her, keeping watch behind them. He walked backwards, twisting and doubling his jacket over his hand to secure his grip on his weapon, until they had put a football field's worth of distance between themselves and the shaking bushes. Nothing burst out from the riverbank to chase them. At last, he turned his focus back to his guide, and saw that she had pulled ahead by a dozen yards. He jogged to catch up.

They went up a little rise that took them away from the river and towards a plateau where patches of scrubby trees joined with more cottonwoods in a broken line. As they got closer to the top, he could see that these trees were both taller and thicker than the ones overhanging the river, but also somehow tougher looking. They looked like gnarled survivors of some upheaval, holding out for a rescue that never came.

_Ain't that just a poetic thought?_

He heard voices, high-pitched and excited, from somewhere up ahead. It sounded like they—whoever they were—were calling the same thing, over and over. He glanced at the girl as the smile dropped from her face. She moved faster, still, and Dean followed, irritated with his shortness of breath and the dizziness that came over him as they climbed. Sam's apple was gone a long time ago.

They topped the rise and saw a scattering of people a hundred yards ahead of them, at a spot where the juniper scrubs and trees gave way to tall grass again. He could make out their tan tunics and long black hair, shining with blue fire in the sun. Some were standing, others walking about, and they all were calling out that same word.

"Hey—is that your family? They looking for you?" he asked. When she turned to stare directly at him, he repeated, "your family?" He tried to recall the sign she'd made before inviting him to follow, and he put his hands up against his ears, pulling his fingers down as if he was combing through a long head of hair. "That's where we're going, right?" He pointed at the group of people—girls or women, he thought, up ahead.

She said nothing with either speech or fingers, simply spun back around and resumed walking towards the group, her mouth a straight line.

As they drew nearer, the tallest girl in the group spotted them, and began talking to Dean's companion, her scolding tone apparent even to him. He hung back as the older girl strode up to Sunshine and took hold of her shoulder. The younger girl, still silent, looked down at the ground as she accepted the scolding. Dean stood silent himself, observing the older girl. She held a blue cloth shawl around her shoulders with one hand as she spoke to her younger— _Sister? Cousin?_ —but one side of it had slipped askew, exposing a bit of collarbone under her tanned leather shift. At her waist, her dress was cinched with a leather belt beaded with what might be porcupine quills. He saw a short knife in a plain scabbard attached to the front of the belt. From her darting glances at him and agitated gestures, he knew she was worried by him, this stray that Sunshine had picked up.

The other girls were gathering behind the eldest in a loose group of varying ages and heights, the youngest only about six, while the eldest might have been seventeen. The six year old stared silently at him, while the others were caught up in the scene before them. Some were apparently amused by his guide's plight, as they whispered to each other or echoed their leader's scolding in a jeering chorus. One, a girl of maybe fourteen, stood a little apart, giving Sunshine a sour look that would have given Sam's best bitch-face a run for the money. _Yep—it's her family._

Given the age range, they might all be— _Sisters,_ the amulet chimed. _OK, sisters,_ he agreed. All girls, and there were—he started counting— _Seven of them._ "Huh," he said under his breath. _Sam, you never finished that story._

Big Sis hadn't slowed down her scolding, and Dean cleared his throat. "Look," he said, and she shut up abruptly, staring at him in surprise. Sunshine turned to look, too, chin rising in a stubborn expression that made him like her even more than he already did. He opened his mouth and pried his clumsy hand away from his stomach, raising both in the placating move he'd amused the girl with down at the river. _How do I let them know that I'm not here to hurt anyone?_ Dean froze, looking down at his guide, imploring her silently to say something in his defense.

She didn't get the chance to say anything, though, as another voice rang out from behind them. This one was male, and he sounded angry. Dean turned, feeling the weight of the stone in his jacket pocket, the pulse of the Mark against the cord. He brought the jacket up tight, again, experimenting with its heft. _Never hurts to be prepared,_ his father whispered in his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Big Sis grasp his guide's shoulder and push her towards the other girls. Sunshine shouted in protest as a figure broke from the scrub below them.

Dean was half-expecting one of the creatures, but it was a young man who appeared, rushing up the hill. He had a knife in his hand, and he was shouting at them.

_No—he's shouting at me,_ Dean thought.

The Mark beat out its familiar call to the kill, and Dean braced himself against it. He raised his hands, palms up instead, though he kept his jacket with its hidden weapon twisted firmly in his grip. The young man ran towards them, calling out angrily. He seemed to be throwing in some gestures as he got nearer.

"Great, more charades," Dean muttered.

The young man was older than Big Sis, but not by much. He wore his long hair in two braids wrapped in cloth, and he was dressed in worked leather like the girls' long tunics, though his clothes were closer to what Dean would call shirt and pants. He was strong, and angry, but Dean could also see fear in his face as he approached. Fear might make him sloppy- _if it came to a fight._ Dean stood his ground.

The young man stopped a few yards away, brandishing his knife in his right hand. At the same time, he swept his left hand up, and he kept making a sharp backhanded wave at Dean, like he was trying to flick something off his fingertips, or to shoo him away. Dean instinctively shifted into a defensive stance though he kept his arms up, hoping that this gesture might be close enough to whatever they used for "no harm, no foul."

Locked in this impasse, both men were startled by Sunshine's voice, calling from the group behind them. She darted past her elder sister and ran up next to Dean. He stared down at her as she shouted at the boy. The young man-brother-shut up in surprise or irritation, but didn't lower his weapon. When the girl paused for breath, Dean said, "Not a great place to be standing right now, kid," feeling a half smile forming on his face in spite of the situation. She looked up at him, returning the grin, and then her gaze traveled down to his right arm. Before he knew what she was doing or could step away from her, she grabbed him by the elbow above the bandage, yanking his arm down to her level.

"Ow!-Damn it, what are you doing?" he yelped at her.

She'd reached up to his sleeve cuff and was pulling it up, past the bandage, past his elbow, up until she saw a piece of the cord tangled in the cloth of his sleeve. He started to pull away, grabbing at the sleeve with his free good hand as she grasped the cord loop and pulled. He felt the knot tighten against his bicep, and yanked his arm out of her grip, but not before the amulet had swung free. The bronze face rocked back and forth a few times, and he heard its tuneless humming rising up in his mind. _"Small-small-"_ it sang.

Sunshine was talking again, dividing her attention now between the boy and her sister. At one point, she looked at Dean and made the curved horns symbol with her hands to her temples, before giving him another exaggerated shrug.

He shook his head at her. She turned back to her sister again, now indicating the black cloth covering his forearm. Her voice took on an imploring tone, and Dean suddenly realized why she had brought him here. His voice sounded rough in his ears as he told her, "Don't think she can fix me, Sunshine."

Big Sis broke the stalemate then. She spoke just one word, and Sunshine stopped talking. Their brother stepped forward, his knife raised, but the girl rebuked him sharply as she approached Dean. He couldn't help the smirk that raised one corner of his lips at that. _Ha—how about that, Big Warrior Brother? Not so big—just a Warrior Boy._ But he quickly sobered when she reached him and tentatively touched the bandage. He flinched even though the touch was lighter than a breeze, but forced himself to stand still. He watched her hand leave the cloth, reach up, and brush against the amulet. He felt the little face warm to her touch, even as the Mark protested. She smiled at it, then gently took his arm by the wrist and began guiding him up the next slope towards the other sisters and another nearby stand of trees.

The Warrior Boy shouted again but she ignored him, forcing him to trot up the slope to catch up to them. He pulled alongside Dean and kept pace there, knife gripped tightly in his hand as he glowered at the older man. The other girls parted ranks as they passed and then fell in behind Sunshine.

The girl in the blue shawl, who had become Big Sis in his head, led him to a small clearing partially shaded by three tall cottonwoods that grew in a clump at its east end. He could see baskets and ground cloths organized neatly at the edge of the shade. The baskets held what looked to him like hanks of cut grass, and roots of some kind, and some dusty purple berries, too. _Wish I hadn't thrown away my phone. Sammy would love to see all of this—_

The girl let go of his wrist and indicated that he should sit down on one of their cloths. He looked at Sunshine, who nodded and smiled at him encouragingly, sitting herself down near the spot that Sis had indicated. Warrior Boy also waved at him, making a fist of his hand in front of his chest and pounding it straight down as if onto a tabletop, in an unmistakable command to "Sit!"

"You ought'a watch your temper, kid," Dean told him, taking a step in his direction, before a sound from Sunshine stopped him. When he glanced over, her beseeching expression deflated some of his anger at her cocky brother, who, he guessed, was just trying to protect his kid sister. "OK, OK—you win," he told her, and he knelt beside his guide.

The boy stepped closer and loomed over him, crossing his arms. Dean bristled and the Mark pulsed in displeasure at the boy's closeness. But, gritting his teeth, he laid the jacket across his knees, close to hand, and considered the boy from his lower vantage. Unbidden, he thought, _It'd be simple. Sweep your arm behind his knees and follow up with a quick jab to the throat when he topples over-_

The amulet rocked once, setting up a low warning chime in his head. It was enough to remind him where he was and who he was with. He unclenched fists that he hadn't noticed tightening and tried to focus on Big Sis instead of her semi-tough, slightly older brother.

It felt good to be sitting.

Big Sis, digging into one of the baskets, finally came up with a small beaded purse and a short length of what might be a broad strip of rawhide. She also grabbed a bulging oblong pouch that had been laying in the shade of the basket. She approached Dean and offered him the pouch. He put up his hands and shook his head. "No, thanks-"

Sunshine laughed at him and tapped his left arm. When he looked at her, she mimed taking the pouch and tipping it into her mouth. "Sam said not to-" he said, and then sighed, knowing that his refusal didn't make a lick of sense. On his right side, the Warrior Boy made an impatient noise and echoed his little sister's gesture. "No!" Dean said, and made the throwing-away sign that he'd seen his guide make. He might have been more forceful than polite.

Big Sis was staring openly at him in wonder and confusion, and he felt suddenly sheepish. "Thank you, anyway-" he said in a softer tone to her. She seemed to brush his words aside, and knelt in front of him, placing the bag on his lap. She reached again for his bandaged arm. He reluctantly let her take it, and she began inspecting his handiwork. The black cloth was soaked through now, and crusty with a mix of blood, river-water, and his own sweat. He shrugged an apology at her that she ignored as she found the end of his wrapping job and started undoing it.

The wounds still looked much the same as they had when he'd scrubbed them in the river. When she uncovered the Mark, she paused, turning his arm back and forth to examine it more closely. He could see her notice the little red lines extending from it to the punctures. It took everything he had to hold steady and not pull his arm away when she touched the brand with her fingertips and transferred her gaze to his face. He felt his forearm tensing painfully with the effort, and even saw the edge of the muscle exposed by the puncture above the Mark shift under his skin, causing the wound to open and ooze more blood. The exposure to air and the tension pulled the dull aching pain he'd been experiencing into sharp spikes that seemed to travel from wound to wound. He pushed back at the pain and swallowed the bile that threatened to rise. Sunshine was asking something, but her sister held her gaze on Dean and did not answer.

Dean shook his head at them both. He could feel the Mark pulsing violently at her touch, and wondered if she sensed it as well. "Long-long story," he said. "Better you don't know."

Sunshine moved so that he could see her and gave his open-jawed bear impersonation back to him, following it with her tossed-away, "no." He did not trust himself to speak, but he nodded in agreement. _Sure as hell was not a bear. Right._ The amulet seemed to rise up and down with the pulse of the Mark, chiming in his head, sadly and wordlessly.

Warrior Boy broke into the group's stillness, settling down on his haunches to get a closer look. The amulet's chiming grew louder, more insistent, as Dean turned towards him, his attention first on the knife. It would be so easy to grab it, even with his clumsy hand. The boy had loosened his grip on the hilt and was now holding it across his lap with the pommel pointed invitingly at the Mark. He forced his gaze-more of a glare, really, but what the hell does the kid want from me?-to travel from the blade up to the boy's face. The boy was leaning over now, far too close, and he reached out to place his free hand on Dean's shoulder. As his hand grazed Dean's arm, the amulet's song suddenly became a high-pitched squeal of alarm. He winced and began to pull away from the younger man's touch, confused by the amulet's warning.

The boy blinked as he pulled back, and Dean saw something drop from the corner of Warrior Boy's eye. At first, he thought it was a teardrop leaking out, but it was blue and it flashed in the sun and then, impossibly, moved sideways across the boy's cheek. As Warrior Boy smiled without warmth down at him, the blue streak-spark, it's a spark-zipped back up the other side of the boy's face and back into his eye. Dean saw several sparks drift across the kid's pupils in a chaotic dance before vanishing back under his eyelids. _Oh, shit. Warrior Boy's possessed._

Dean jerked back, yanking his arm out of Big Sis' gentle grasp and, colliding with Sunshine's shoulder, bowling her over in his haste to grab his jacket and stand between her and her brother. Big Sis exclaimed, and the other girls, who had been quietly playing or talking to each other nearby, froze and stared at him. He swayed, but raised his weapon as Warrior Boy smoothly stood up, blue sparks now dancing freely about his head reminding Dean of the sparks that had splashed against the blocked door in the cave.

_And I woke that thing up, and made it charge the barrier. Hell, probably led it right to the river._

He glanced down at Sunshine's frightened face.

"Sorry, kid," He said to her. He turned towards Warrior Boy. "Wish I could help you, too. But it probably ain't gonna work out that way." His clumsy, marked and warded arm tensed and he went into a defensive crouch, watching the boy as he tracked his little sister move back away from them. Dean wrapped the jacket around his palm and lifted it until he could pull the obsidian chunk out of the pocket and palm it in his left hand. The boy's stare left Sunshine and returned to Dean's face. He grinned a wide and senseless grin, and raised his knife, casually flipping it in his hand until it pointed downward in a classic brawler's grip. Dean heard Big Sis gasp and scramble back out of the way, and he grimaced as he waited for the inevitable attack.

Warrior Boy was possessed, and Dean was sure it was his fault, but damned if he wasn't going to do something about it.

_Damn it, Sam—wish I knew how this friggin' story is supposed to go-_


	15. Chapter 15

Dean stood, wary and defensive, as Warrior Boy regarded him. He didn’t want to make the first move, even though the Mark was now pounding at him to strike, to neutralize the threat posed by the possessed boy’s knife, to kill and take his due, feel that high—

More sparks wreathed Warrior Boy’s head, swarming in small clusters like a cloud of gnats. He grinned at Dean and his sisters through the swarm and took a step forward. Dean shifted his grip on the stone in his left palm. His handkerchief was still wrapped around the obsidian chunk, and he hoped it would hold together. He pulled himself down into a slight crouch to balance his center of gravity and extended his arms out to his sides in preparation. He watched the knife in the boy’s hand. 

Big Sis had scrambled backwards when the men stood up, and she now sat back on her heels, apparently stunned by her brother’s appearance. Behind Dean, Sunshine was talking at them, a pleading tone in her voice. “Better get out of the way,” he told her, shooing at her with his wrapped right hand without turning around. Instead of backing further off, he heard her run up behind him and grab at his arm, still pleading, as Warrior Boy took another step towards them. Dean wheeled halfway around to glare at her. “Damn it, Sunshine, back up!”

She’d taken hold of him by the crook of his elbow, above the deepest wound and she yanked down like she’d done earlier. Her free hand reached out and she grasped the amulet in her fist. The cord tightened uncomfortably and the amulet’s warning hum faded away as it lost contact with his skin. Her pleading became more of a command. 

The boy was far too close, raising his knife. Dean pulled himself up with an effort and used his right hand to push Sunshine behind him. She lost her grip on the little face and it swung back onto his arm. He jumped a bit as it hit him, hot to the touch.

“Go!” he shouted at her, pushing at her again and spinning back towards her brother just as the knife slashed down. Dean ducked it, sweeping his wrapped right hand up and in front to block the weapon. His forearm collided with Warrior Boy’s and knocked them both off center. A bolt of pain shot through Dean, but he regained his ground. 

Dimly he was aware that Sunshine had hit the dirt behind them. She was still talking at him though, _so she’ll be OK--_

Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Big Sis had worked herself backwards, scuttling on her bottom in a fast crabwalk to get out of the way. As she got awkwardly to her feet, hampered by her prone position and long tunic and the shawl which had slipped halfway off her shoulder, Warrior Boy shifted his gaze towards her. He started to laugh and point at her with his knife as if she were performing some kind of slapstick routine. Dean took advantage of the distraction to bring his sharp obsidian chunk up. Without thought or emotion he smacked the boy on the side of the skull with it, knocking the kid off balance again. Warrior Boy went down on one knee, his laugh cut off into a huffing bark that sounded way too bearlike. 

“Great---” Dean muttered. 

The boy bounced back up faster than he had any right to, stabbing upward with his knife towards Dean’s belly. He felt the blade cut through his shirt and pulled back, but not before it drew a gash across his torso. He parried with his wrapped hand again, pushing the blade out and away from his soft bits and knocking it down in a smooth sweep. The obsidian put weight behind his punch as he connected with the boy’s chest. This time the kid went all the way down, panting heavily. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw that Big Sis was gathering the girls together. She was waving her arms at Sunshine, too, but he didn’t see her come out from behind them. He cursed to himself, and glanced over his shoulder, looking for his young guide. Warrior Boy caught him off guard, rising a third time and slashing at him in a wide arc, catching him on his arm just above his makeshift padding. The amulet squealed an alarm in his head. _No shit!_ He thought at it. 

He took a step back and took another swing at Warrior Boy’s face, but not fast enough. The boy lunged at him, toppling Dean over just before the rock would have caught him on the chin. He could hear the mingled voices of Sunshine and her sisters behind and around him. _Just get out of here--_ he willed them. _Go, run, get safe--_

The blue sparks swarmed over Warrior Boy’s face and torso now, moving around and into him in abandoned chaos. Dean dropped the obsidian as he blocked the blade with his right hand and grabbed one of his jacket’s loose sleeves with his now weaponless left. As the blade swept up in the air again and started down towards his throat, Dean yanked his jacket taut and let the blade puncture the cloth. As quickly as he could, he slapped the ends of his jacket together, trapping Warrior Boy’s knife hand in its folds. He twisted his body as the boy pressed his blade downwards towards his neck, trying to get it as far away as he could, and succeeding only in inches. 

The boy’s eyes were solid blue. Blood trickled towards them from a gash Dean had opened on his temple. He grinned down at Dean, and the older man could see that his canines had lengthened. _Shapeshifter? Skinwalker?_ As they struggled over the blade, he saw the boy's nose and jaw pull out of their normal shape, becoming a snout. Warrior Boy growled, maybe in pain. 

_Holy crap--_

The boy quickly recovered from the shifting, and snapped his long jaw at him over the jacket edge. 

“You’re having way too much fun in there--” Dean grunted. 

_Now or never, son--_ John whispered in his head. Dean pulled his jacket sleeve around the knife and twisted it sharply to the side, grinning to himself as the boy was caught by surprise, and gratified to feel his opponent’s grip on the knife break loose. He acted on the lapse, releasing his hold on the sleeve and yanking his right hand up sharply, pulling the whole mess out and over his shoulder. The knife flew into the tall grass behind them, landing with a thud somewhere out of sight. He smirked at Warrior Boy. _My turn to laugh, you little--_

His amusement was short-lived, as the boy wrapped a way too big hand _\--Hell--it’s a paw--_ around his neck and started to squeeze. He felt the beginnings of claws scratch at his skin and he scrabbled at the boy’s hold with his clumsy right hand. He managed to pry a finger in alongside his windpipe, stopping the boy from simply snapping his neck. _Not enough, not enough_ , the Mark pulsed ever more urgently against the cord. _Well, be good for something, you sonovabitch!_ He screamed at it in his head. 

As if in answer, his hand gained some strength and he was able to keep the boy-bear’s paw from closing completely. He was vaguely aware of the jacket wrapping now hanging loosely around his palm, hampering his movement, and obscuring part of Warrior Boy’s face as it grimaced through more changes. 

_Small favors, right._ His left hand reached for the obsidian he had dropped by his side. “Cmon, Cmon--”

He had it. 

Dean swung his arm as hard as he could this time, aiming at the boy-bear’s temple. The rock struck bone with a crack and the boy tumbled off of him to the right, stunned, releasing his hold on him. He gasped, took in a lungful of sweet air, and rolled out from under. 

He rose from the ground, not as gracefully as he would have liked. Blood dripped from his arm and from the edge of the stone, but he hadn’t killed the boy-bear. He _\--It--_ was on hands and knees, huffing and curling in on itself, in obvious pain both from his last blow and the continuing transformation. Pretty soon it would be a full-on bear. 

Big Sis, somewhere off to their side cried out, a choked sound of disbelief and horror. It turned its head towards her and answered her with a rage-filled roar. Dean kept his attention on the thing, weapon at the ready, while out of the corner of his eye, he tracked Big Sis as she gathered the smallest girl in her arms and called to the others. They obeyed her immediately, and began running towards the meager row of cottonwoods at the far edge of the clearing. She ran with them. 

_Good,_ he thought, the Mark pounding under his skin. _Better they don’t see this._ To the boy-bear he said only, “Sorry, kid--” He let his jacket unravel off his palm and raised the rock in both hands. 

“Deee---ster!” He looked up, startled at the voice. _That wasn’t Sam, was it?_

His brother’s face in a bunker hallway, scared but determined behind Ruby’s knife, swam across his vision and then was gone. 

Not Sam. He looked over his shoulder, lowering the obsidian only slightly. The boy-bear grunted at his feet. 

Sunshine stood there, looking at him, one arm raised, only a few feet away. She held her brother’s knife in her outstretched hand, and she said something, one word, and then again, adding in the gesture he’d come to understand. 

No. 

Her eyes softened as he stared at her, and she said another word, entreaty plain in her voice. 

Please. 

The amulet echoed her word, rocking with the Mark’s pulse. 

The boy-bear growled at her then, its intent clear, even as Dean dropped the rock to his side. It swept a paw at her and she jumped back in shock. 

“Damn it, Sunshine--”

Dean let the rock fall next to his jacket and he swooped towards her, stepping directly in front of the thing that used to be her brother and shielding her, before grabbing her around the waist to pick her up. She gave a little shriek as he did so, struggling weakly in his arms, but he wouldn’t put her down. He heard the boy-bear huff behind them and he took off running, taking a wide circle around it as he turned into the direction Big Sis had gone. 

Up ahead he could see the eldest girl directing her sisters to climb the tallest tree in the row. As he watched, his own breath already sounding hoarse and huffing, she handed her smallest sister off to the girl with the Sammy-bitchface, who leaned down from a low branch to take the little girl. 

“Dee----Dee--” Sunshine was thumping her hand against his back and making that “no” move with the hand he could see below his chin, but even though he was growing dizzy, he did not stop to put her down. Finally she settled for grabbing a hold of the amulet and talking in his ear. He shook his head at her, kept running. Somewhere behind them, the bear roared. 

They reached the tree and Sunshine let go of the little face as he lowered her to her feet. Big Sis was waiting at the base, and she spoke to Sunshine, offering her hand. The younger girl ignored it, staring up at his face with a hard grimace that could have been born of fear or anger over having been carried when she could have run, or even concern for Dean with his panting breaths and bleeding arm and stomach. 

“Get up in the tree, Sunshine,” he told her, waving his hand at it before turning to lean on the trunk and look behind them. The bear’s shifting was complete. It was still more than halfway across the clearing, but its lumbering trot was picking up speed. “Now!” He nodded at Big Sis. “You too, Sister, before Brother Bear gets here.” 

Sunshine silently clambered up to the first sturdy branch and Big Sis followed her. Then, in a sort of unspoken agreement, they each braced themselves on the branch and reached their arms down to him. 

He batted their hands away. 

“I’ll keep him--busy.” 

Sunshine clucked her tongue at him and reached down for him again, but he stepped away from the trunk and set himself in front of the tree. Bobby and Sam were both screaming in his head, and the amulet was singing an alarm, while the Mark pounded in excitement. 

He didn’t want to die. 

But face facts, Sammy had only bought some time with that purity cure of his. Sooner or later, it was going to happen. 

Better away from the people he loved. 

Better where it might at least do some good. Behind him he heard Big Sis call out, repeating her words twice. Some of the other girls picked up her refrain until the words began to sound like a chant. Sunshine was silent, and he could almost feel her stare between his shoulder blades. 

Better in a way that the frickin Mark would have to work damn hard to pull him back together. 

A half-smile lifted the corner of his mouth as the bear loped closer. 

Better here.

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic--and now, my first attempt at multichapters. Thanks to my first reader/reliable beta, my husband, who allows me to shove these things at him and then patiently sets about making them better. Hope you like--and, either way, please let me know! Constructive feedback and criticism is more than welcome.


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